by Tom Kratman
He’d been skeptical at first, but no matter how much he dug, there were no crosses, no gallows, no whipping or branding posts—no whips or branding irons, for that matter—and no barred pits in the ground. The slaves looked a lot healthier and vastly happier, too. Those slaves, a dozen of them, clustered around the woman as if shielding her.
“I am Centurion Vicente, Timocratic Republic of Balboa. You? Why are you different? Why do your slaves care for you?” the centurion asked, speaking over the small crowd of clutching men, women, and children, all with fear-filled eyes.
You know, I think these people will fight for her if we try to take her.
The owner, a woman, Esther Shazli—Damned fine-looking woman, too, if you ask me—said, “I know what the system is that I was born into, Centurion. I know it’s rotten and that so are most of the people in it. I am only one; I cannot help what others do. But I am still one and must do what I can.”
She really was good looking, too, especially for a woman probably about two hundred and fifty years old. Tall, slender, huge brown eyes. She was shapely if perhaps a bit small breasted, a fact easy to see since, like most of the women of old Earth, she was, as usual, topless.
Vicente considered what she’d said, then answered. “I am only one, too, and under authority, to boot. But I will do what I can. You hide, stay hidden. Dress like your slaves . . .”
“Servants,” Esther corrected, “and friends.”
“Who gives a shit what you call them; dress like them anyway. And stay low. If I can, I’ll come and tell you when you can come out. If I never can come . . . think twice before revealing yourself.”
He heard the insistent whine of inbound helicopters.
“And now, madame, I must go.”
“I’ll consider what you’ve said.”
“Consider my ass,” Vicente answered. “Get your shapely posterior hidden!”
The helicopter that picked up Vicente, Rodrigues, and their platoon of cadet infantry skimmed the ground, wheels low enough to snag the odd bush. It wasn’t the most fuel-efficient way to travel, wing-in-ground effect or not, but it had the distinct virtue that should one of those laser defense towers still be operational it would be unlikely to spot and engage them.
The island wasn’t all that big, really. The trip to the foot of the ridge half encircling the base took less than twenty minutes. The helicopter made one quick stop at a holding area still being formed, where Claudia Nyere was unceremoniously booted off—literally. Vicente had her dragged to the rear ramp and then planted his boot on her posterior and kicked her off face forward into the dirt, before tossing to the MP on station a brief list of her more obvious crimes.
After that, the chopper cut to port and scaled the slope. There, still keeping low, it made three touchdowns on the exterior slope—exterior to the base—before letting the platoon off, in a great cloud of dust. It made two more touchdowns after that. The last the platoon had seen of it, it was flying low still, skirting around the three-quarter circle of a ridge line before skipping across the waves to the ALTA, there to be refueled and rearmed, rather than drain the small FFAR point ashore. Still more pairs of choppers, raising dust all over the plain, swooped in- or outbound, ferrying in more units and more prisoners.
GLS worked here. Checking his map and deciding the chopper had dropped them off to perfection, Vicente directed his platoon up the slope to an assault position currently marked by a brace of Ocelots.
Even as he hustled the boys along, Rodrigues pushing them from the back, he mused, Damned fine-looking woman. Maybe if . . .
From behind, the landing force’s sole artillery battery, eight of the eighty-five-millimeter jobs, pounded frantically, the pounding punctuated by brief lulls as they shifted targets. Their shells’ passage overhead was marked by a freight-train racket. Another damned good reason for the helicopters to stay low. Mortars, too—and there were a lot more of those, likewise kicked in. The fragmentary order they’d been given by radio had promised a smoke screen to cover their approach down the slope and into the town. He expected it would be damned thin and damnably iffy.
Finca Mixcoatl
There was a dirt road from the finca to the main road that ran north and south. This was the road taken by Pablo and Francisco. It was also the road they’d met at on the way back. From there, having seen little but strange flying machines, the occupants of which ignored them, they trotted their horses.
There were reasons—very good reasons—that the majordomo had chosen Pablo and Francisco to ride out to scout for danger. As he, himself, had been, those two were true, eager, and willing stakhanovites. This, among other reasons, was why they’d been trusted with horses.
They’re also been trusted with punishment. Indeed, it had been those two who had nailed young Arpad to the cross beam, then lifted and fixed the beam to the top of the upright, the stirpes, and first tied his ankles to the upright, and then nailed his heels to the wood.
“Hey, Pablo,” Francisco said, “I bet we get a lot more willing and eager cooperation from little weepy girl if we hurt her boy first and threaten to do more if she doesn’t cooperate.”
“We can do her in front of him,” Pablo added. “The mistress will appreciate giving him more suffering.”
They’d had a little fun with Miriamne, afterwards, but that was just part of the compensation package. The fun had been an additional reason for the girl’s weeping at the foot of Arpad’s cross.
Neither Pablo nor Francisco had any particular reason to fear their return. The finca, after all, was peaceful, as a general rule, with the majordomo’s escopeta to back up the orders of the more privileged among the slaves, the stakhanovites like themselves.
The several hundred slaves who worked the land and provided domestic services to the mistress all turned out to meet the two. They were formed in a kind of loose crescent, with the thickest part in front of the punishment area.
As Pablo and his pal rode in, chatting with each other amiably, they failed to notice immediately several important changes. One was that the cross they’d had the disloyal slave on was empty. Another was that two different crosses were filled. A third was that, a few rows of people into the crescent, the majordomo’s escopeta was in the hands of someone new.
They also failed to notice as the arms of the crescent began to fold in behind them. Indeed, their first realization of change came when the cry arose—was it a young woman’s voice?—“Get them!”
Pablo was pulled from his bucking horse almost immediately. Francisco managed to strike some heads and faces with his short whip, but his resistance didn’t last very long, either. Once on the ground, both tried to cover their heads against the kicks aimed their way.
“Too quick! Too quick!” Miriamne cried above the exultant shouts. “No beat. No!” She pointed and demanded, “To the crosses with them!”
Outside Atlantis Base
Lying side by side in the brush, Vicente and Rodrigues alternated watching through their single pair of binoculars as some thin traces of a smoke screen appeared. Overhead, the freight-train-rattle of 85mm artillery sounded, low and menacing, accompanied by the softer sounds of mortar shells cruising at a higher altitude. The explosions to the front, being just light artillery and mortars, were nothing like the gut-rippling catastrophes of heavier shells.
“Wish to hell we had the cruiser in support,” the cadet said.
“Wish in one hand and . . .”
“Yes, Centurion; I know, ‘shit in the other.’ But I still wish we had the cruiser in support.”
“For smoke?” Centurion Vicente asked. “They don’t make a smoke shell for that. For high explosive I feel the same way.”
Rodrigues shrugged. “Just a thought.”
“Was never practical,” Vicente said. “Having the cruiser in range to get in range to support us would have given the game away. And if that had happened, we were deader than chivalry . . . hmmm?”
“Yes?” the cadet asked.
&
nbsp; “We’re getting mixed HE with smoke now. The order will be coming down in a few minutes to move out. Go check that the machine guns are ready, then get behind the platoon to kick asses.”
“Yes, Centurion,” the cadet answered, before beginning to slither backwards to avoid silhouetting himself to the defenders below.
“Rodrigues!”
“Yes, Centurion?” the cadet asked, his slithering coming to a temporary halt.
“This will only be your second time in action, right?”
“Yes, Centurion.”
“First time in a position of responsibility?”
“Yes, Centurion.”
“Scared?”
“A little,” the boy admitted.
“Don’t bother; you’re going to be too busy to be scared once we get the order to go in.”
Rodrigues thought about that for all of half a second, then answered, with a smile, “You know what, Centurion? I think that’s right.”
“It was right when Sergeant Major Mac gave the advice to Sergeant Major Martinez, and right when Martinez gave it to me, more than fifteen years ago. The world hasn’t changed since. One other thing, too: those guys and gals waiting for us down there are sailors, and space sailors at that. They’ve never been in action and, I’ll guarantee you, if the shells hitting amongst them don’t impress us much, they’re so impressed their trousers are brown. Now go on.”
“Yes, Centurion.”
Rodrigues continued down the slope, knocking the odd pebble loose to roll down, until he judged he was low enough that he could rise to a crouch without being seen. That happened to be about where Parilla, the medic, was waiting. Giving the medic the thumbs-up sign, Rodrigues arose, cut left, and paralleled the crest of the slope to just behind the weapons squad.
The machine gun crews were in defilade, with only the squad leader looking out over the town via binoculars. Rodrigues passed those at a duck walk, then fell to the prone and crawled up.
“You’re a noisy crawler,” said the squad leader, a cadet named Negrón, who was also the lightest-skinned member of the platoon, man or boy.
“Odd layout,” Rodrigues said, “with your machine guns that far back.”
“They can be up here in about two and a half seconds,” Negrón replied. “And engaging targets half a second after that. I’ve brought the gunners up one at a time to show them what I want suppressed.
“You know, it’s funny, Jorge.”
“What is?”
Negrón gestured in the direction of the base. “Those Earthpig shuttles that have been landing? They’ve been avoiding the ship, probably to avoid the guns, and flying very low nap of the Earth. I see the same six hull numbers, over and over, plus any number of other numbers that only show up once. I think they’re trying to bullshit us as to how many people are down there to defend.”
“Now that is something Hamilcar needs to know! Good observation.”
Jorge immediately began to slide back, to make his way to the platoon radio.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero (Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow).
—Horace, Odes
Atlantis Base
Turning away from the window at which she stood, Bethany asked her leader, Christopher Robin, “Why do the shuttles keep coming down? I’ve seen the one that brought us come in at least six times.”
“Probably to try to bullshit the Balboans into thinking that t here are a lot more of us than there are, get them to take more time getting ready, expend more ammunition, which they can’t have an infinite supply of, while other shuttles really are bringing in reinforcements.
“It’s clever of the high admiral, if she’s behind it, but clever doesn’t mean it will work. Okay, now back at your windows. You’re firing . . . you’re firing . . . and damn! Clear a stoppage again.”
Wallace went through the drill for what seemed to her the fiftieth time, slapping her top-mounted magazine down, jerking the charging hook, releasing the hook, hitting it forward, and then resuming her aim. The unexpended round flew through the air to clatter on the tile floor. The other few members of the team did the same, their own rounds likewise hitting the floor.
Robin’s small crew were in a large room in the basement of one of the public buildings of the town. They’d come in through a side door, though, and none of them had the slightest clue what the functions of the building were, beyond a general idea that it housed some of the inevitable bureaucracy. Her occasional shore leaves had never brought her to this part of the town, the government area north of the central park.
There were windows in the basement, but all were above, well above, shoulder and eye level.
Thus, the first thing Robin had done was have them push tables under each of the windows, then mount the tables to see if they could see out. It wasn’t perfect; the men had to scrunch down while Bethany had had to pile several flat monitors to see out. It was an unstable platform.
But best I get used to it.
The Balboan artillery fire, which the crew could hear and feel but not see, seemed to be coming in a fair and even safe distance away, somewhere—some on the edge of town, some inside it—where Bethany couldn’t see. She could see, from time to time, tracers lancing upward from positions near hers.
“Trying to keep the Balboan drones off our backs, I suppose,” had been Robin’s judgment. “There really aren’t enough of us to hold the base if—when—they attack, not unless they’re very, very cautious. They won’t be cautious if they know where we are.”
At his temporary command post, on the reverse slope east of Atlantis Base, Ham studied the map, worrying in turn about the oncoming Zhong Paras, the defense he might be facing ahead, and what had to be admitted was the fragility of both his own command and his state of command over it. With one ear he listened to the radio chatter, as well.
“And there goes another fucking one,” came the curse over the radio. The voice was familiar, if only from recent acquaintance. “Tell Carrera’s kid that at this rate, we’ll run out of drones before we get anything worthwhile.”
“Carrera’s kid”? thought Ham. Well, I am, of course, or Mom would have a good deal to answer for. But is that all I am? I suppose the next couple of days will tell.
“Tell Seaman—hell, what was his name?—oh, yeah, Wilson. Tell Seaman Wilson to pull back the drones.”
From an entirely different radio, the intelligence net’s, came the words, “Flash! Flash! Flash! For the commander; the Earthpigs are sending in empty shuttles to try to seem stronger than they are!”
Well, isn’t that interesting. Explains the effort they put into driving back the drones, too, doesn’t it? But what does it mean? And what do I do about it? Well, first off, ammunition isn’t unlimited so,“Have the artillery and mortars cease fire.”
“Wilco, Ham.”
One: they’re weaker than they’re trying to look; that much is obvious. Two: they’re either trying to bluff us into not attacking at all or buy time for more help to arrive so that we’ll be too busy fighting them off to attack. Three: eventually they will get stronger. They may even have time to call in their Marines from around the world when they just might become too tough a nut to crack. No, I don’t think they’d be that tough, even so, but I could be wrong. So, “Fire support?”
“Here, Ham.”
“Smoke screen, as thick as possible, northern edge of the base, from the shore to as far in as we can go and still make it thick. How long to prep for and lay the screen?”
“Top of my head, twenty-five minutes. But we can’t keep it up long; not enough ammunition unloaded.”
“That’s good enough. Ops?”
“Yes, Ham,” David Cano answered.
“Have all the armor back off and shift around to the northern edge of the ridge—a caldera, I suppose it must be—to support the two maniples up there. Once the screen is in, they go in to grab the northern edge.”
“Ocelots, too?”
Ham thought, As tanks go the Ocelots aren’t. Lightly armored, they still carry a decent gun. So “boot, don’t spatter.” “Ocelots, too.”
“And then?”
“Once we have the northern edge of the base, we’ll peel from that, working north to south and bringing the rest in as the way becomes clear.”
“Roger,” agreed Cano. “Intel was silent on this, but they’ve probably got thermals integral to every rifle and machine gun. They ought to be advanced enough for that, anyway. The smoke won’t do that much good.”
“It will worry them. Doubt they’ve ever seen smoke up close and personal before. Even so, the second we have a good screen established shift fires slightly southward and inward and make it high explosive. We’ll see how well they can use their thermals when they’re shivering and shitting their pants.”
Not every firearm in the legions had a thermal imager, not nearly; they were just too expensive for the budget to support. Instead, snipers had them and one or more machine guns per weapons squad had them. In the case of Negrón’s squad, he had control of their one thermal imager, though some other weapons squads had two. One thermal, of course, wouldn’t do for three machine guns. What to do; what to do? Well . . . maybe it will do, at least for a while.
Negrón knew what he wanted his guns to suppress, so, once the smoke had built up enough to obscure the edge of the base, he called the first gun forward.
“Set up your tripod here,” he said, pointing at a spot on the ground, “oriented there.” His finger gave a general location to the south. The crew, who hadn’t had a lot to do on their long voyage but gun drills, set up the gun on the tripod with a minimum of fuss. Thereupon, Negrón slapped the thermal onto the gun, ordered the gunner away, and got behind it himself. He set the range on the thermal, then elevated the gun until the sight was on the building—indeed, on the particular window—he wanted suppressed. Then he locked the gun into place on the traversing and elevating mechanism, telling the gunner, “You’re on now, close enough. When we begin to engage, I’ll give you the thermal back for ten seconds or so, so you can make fine adjustment.”
