Terra Nova- the Wars of Liberation

by Tom Kratman

  “Of course, child,” Duc said, smiling. “I thank the Lord for your devotion to His ministry and your people.”

  On Approach to Thang Pho Xahn

  Cochin Colony, Terra Nova

  Alexander’s stomach gave a little jolt as the helicopter’s nose dipped below the horizon and negative gees pulled his rear off the canvas seat. The Zulu prince smirked a bit at the widening of Thenjiwe’s eyes across from him. He and his younger cousin were the third generation of colonists in Northern Uruhu. While they had always known that flying machines were more than myth, the fact that neither they nor their parents had firsthand experience with them lent all aircraft an air of mystery, and for some of the colonists, terror.

  Personally, Alexander thought flying was one of the best things about this war and if he weren’t weighed down with the burden of his blood and the burden of command would’ve loved to become an aviator himself. Thenjiwe’s paling knuckles and clenched jaw muscles indicated he didn’t share his older cousin’s enthusiasm. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Arcand’s face remained impassive at the helicopter’s sharp maneuvering.

  The sun was sinking into the dark green hilltops, illuminating the jungle canopy in pink, orange and purple rays as the UN helicopters approached the district capital of Thang Pho Xahn. While a great deal larger than most Cochinese hamlets, “District Capital,” still seemed a pretentious moniker for the town. It was mostly thatched roof and bamboo construction, but a few stone and even a couple of brick buildings stood out.

  The bird flared out over a field just beyond the outskirt buildings of the village and settled gently on its wheels. Ten helicopters joined the one carrying Alexander and Arcand on the ground mere seconds later, having shifted from a vee to a diamond formation. C Company of the 1st Zulu Auxiliary Rifles poured out of the birds. Two platoons secured the landing zone forming a ring of green-and-black clad Zulus, rifles and machine guns pointed outward. The third platoon escorted the general and the prince into the town.

  Arcand and Alexander followed a well-manicured flagstone path past some of the larger, more impressive bamboo huts to one of the brick buildings in the village. It was a two-story reddish-brown building with actual glass windows and an orange, two-tiered roof that sloped up to points at each of the buildings’ corners.

  The steps that led up to the building’s main entrance were flanked by two sandstone guardian lions. Each was five feet tall, one held its massive paw over a globe, the other over a lion cub. A blue uniformed native trooper stood beside each lion. Both men snapped to and brought their flintlock rifles perpendicular to the ground, held in both hands and centered. Arcand returned their presentation of arms with a salute. Corporal Ngo, his radioman, stepped forward and spoke in Vietnamese to the guards. After a brief exchange, the younger guard nodded politely and walked up the stairs and into the house.

  Governor Trung Thieu was a known quantity to the UN occupiers and had, from all reports, personally led his native troops in a successful defense of Thang Pho Xahn even as the Italians had failed to hold the river valley fortress. Arcand rewarded his competence and loyalty with a higher degree of autonomy than most of the district governors enjoyed.

  The general, being a fair sort, didn’t let his appreciation be tempered by the fact that Trung Thieu’s loyalty was secured by his only daughter’s presence as a de facto hostage at the UN headquarters. Virtually all of the local notables had given up beloved children to be “educated” by the benevolent UN forces charged with defending the colony from undesirable elements. No one, not even Arcand, used the word hostage aloud.

  Alexander could feel Thenjiwe fidgeting next to him, compulsively running a hand across the back of his neck then wiping it on his pant leg. Alexander quelled the unnecessary motion with a cough and a flick of his eyes to the Legionnaires and Cochinese. Thenjiwe, receiving the message, straightened up and did his best to pretend the jungle heat and moisture weren’t murdering his soul.

  Fortunately, the guard did not take long to return.

  “Sir,” he said in thick French. “Governor Thieu will see you now.”

  As was proper, given that General Arcand was the de facto ruler of all Cochina, he entered Thieu’s study first, even before their host. It was a positively cavernous room by colonial standards with both a writing desk and a green, rectangular conference table: an Old Earth antique, Alexander noted, made of plastic that none of the Terra Novan colonies were capable of making yet. The plain white walls were lined with book shelves.

  Thieu joined them in short order. The governor was not a physically imposing man, but his posture was unbent and deep lines crossed his weathered face. Despite the state of his colony as an occupied territory, despite the fact that his only child remained in his occupier’s custody, despite the ludicrous imbalance of power between the two men, he met Arcand’s eyes steadily, with grave dignity.

  “General,” Thieu said, with a moderate bow. “I take it you have been victorious?”

  “Yes, Governor,” Arcand said, returning the bow with a shallower one. “The fortress has been retaken. I will be leaving more of my own troops to help you fend off any future incursions, as well as some reliable native troops levied from the Southern Districts.”

  Thieu’s expression changed not one whit, but Alexander felt palpable disapproval radiating from the old man.

  “As you wish, General,” Thieu said, his tone as still as his features. “Please, have a seat.”

  They sat around the green plastic table, Alexander to Arcand’s left, Thieu across from Arcand, the unoccupied side toward the door. Alexander ensured he had a clear view of the door, since Arcand had insisted Alexander’s troops wait outside the mansion.

  “I’m afraid there remains an unpleasantness to resolve,” Arcand said.

  The first visible sign of consternation, a small crease between the eyebrows, flitted across Thieu’s face.

  “What, ‘unpleasantness,’ remains? Was not the fortress the last major insurgent position in the district?”

  “Yes,” said Arcand. “It was, but there remains the task of discouraging further acts of rebellion. Given that more than two hundred Italians died and that a majority of the CLF regulars escaped across the border into Lang Xan with significant quantities of Italian weapons and munitions, enemy propaganda will certainly paint this as a victory. We must take measures to invalidate that perception, and to discourage others from joining the CLF cause.”

  The governor and the general stared, stone-faced, at one another for long, painful seconds. Alexander felt their war of wills as if it were tangible, as if he were back on the hillside, artillery impacting just a short distance away. Formidable as Arcand was, Alexander believed the old man might have won the contest had he a single card to play beyond his own resolve. Thieu rose a great deal in Alexander’s estimation at that moment.

  Since his position as supplicant was inalterable, though, the old man broke the silence first.

  “General Arcand,” Thieu said, slowly, carefully, as if probing a minefield with his words. “How would you discourage others? I think mass reprisals would be ineffective and counterproductive.”

  Underneath the table, Alexander’s hand tightened on the butt of the pistol in his thigh holster. Thieu’s native guards were just in the other room, much closer than Alexander’s Zulus. Arcand, for his part, kept his hands folded calmly on the green plastic tabletop.

  “I do not propose, Governor Thieu,” Arcand said with a frosty edge to every word. “I command.”

  Arcand let that linger for several breaths before he continued.

  “But no, I do not intend anything so indiscriminate. We have gathered genetic data on every single insurgent we killed or captured. We will systematically sweep every settlement in the district, starting with the capital, to find their relatives. Women and children will be moved to reeducation camps in the south and given meaningful work. Colonel nDlamini’s men will execute the adult males.”

  Alexander misse
d several beats of conversation after that. Arcand, damn his arrogance, hadn’t warned Alexander that his men were now to be executioners. The general had predicted, correctly, damn him again, that Alexander wouldn’t contradict him in front of the governor. Furthermore, Alexander saw the balance of fury and cold logic at work in Arcand’s solution and had to admit he appreciated it.

  “General, I think, perhaps, that would be an overreaction,” Thieu said, but even as he argued, Alexander noted his posture was fractionally more relaxed.

  He’s not willing to fight to the hilt to stop this, Alexander realized, with horror and admiration. Thieu was pragmatic enough to accept the UN rooting out his troublemakers for him.

  “Two hundred of my men lie dead upon that hill,” Arcand said, his voice rising for the first time in the conversation, as he pointed back down the valley. “Every single body was mutilated. I can only hope most of them were already dead when the vermin went to work on them. I will avenge them, and the people will learn that joining the insurgency will result in their death and the outright destruction of their families. Your people’s only hope is in cooperation with us.”

  This response, though brutal, was measured and appropriate given the locals’ imperatives. The Cochinese, like their Vietnamese ancestors, like Alexander’s own people, were communal in a way most Europeans simply couldn’t understand. The Terra Novan colonists were even more so, the primitive conditions of the new world having necessitated they embrace older and harsher ways just to survive.

  By striking at specific family groups rather than rounding up random villagers, Arcand could instill fear and underscore his resolve without appearing capricious or driving the undecided into the insurgency’s arms. If anything, he was showing generosity by allowing the women and children to live, albeit far away from their homes and under the burden of, “meaningful work.”

  Thieu was opening his mouth to make a counter point when the study’s door swung open. Two white-uniformed locals carried in trays laden with tea and hors d’oeuvres. A flash of unconcealed anger drew Thieu’s eyebrows together sharply.

  “I did not call for—” his words fell off abruptly and confusion replaced anger on his countenance. Alexander felt a shard of ice in his gut as he realized what was going on.

  Thieu doesn’t recognize the servants.

  The intruders dropped their trays. One of the men was shouting something in Vietnamese that sounded like, “chat fan boy!” Both of them produced black pistols from inside their uniforms. The men held the weapons one-handed instead of dropping into a supported two-handed stance, but at conversational distance their lack of form wouldn’t matter. Alexander saw the pistols coming up as if in slow motion.

  The Zulu prince was in motion before the tea cups hit the floor. The tabletop wouldn’t stop even the smallest caliber bullets, but its lightness also made it a serviceable projectile. Alexander sprang to his feet, flipped the table onto its side and kicked it at the attackers in one smooth motion. The table took both men in the legs, doubling them over and driving the muzzles of their pistols towards the floor. Their first shots punched holes through the tawny smilodon fur rug and into the wooden flooring. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.

  Alexander threw himself forward, following through as his right foot hit the floor to leap into a dive tackle at the nearest gunman. His left shoulder plowed into the man’s mid-section and his momentum and far greater mass drove the thin assassin violently back into the door frame. Alexander heard the man’s bones crack. As they slid down the door jamb to the floor, Alexander heard a second and then a third shot but he couldn’t see what came of them.

  The insurgent he grappled still held the sleek, Italian pistol in his right hand. Alexander immediately clamped his enemy’s gun hand with both of his and slammed his wrist against the door jamb with a crack, then again, and then a third time before the pistol fell from the man’s numb grasp. Rather than go for his own sidearm, Alexander launched into a full assault on the man’s unprotected face, raining elbows and fists on his head until he went limp.

  Someone was shouting his name from a distance, but the fury for which his people were renowned had taken Alexander and he continued to beat the insurgent’s face into a pulp. He didn’t stop until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Whirling, his fists skinned and covered in blood, Alexander turned to face the second attacker with wide reddened eyes. Instead he found Arcand standing there, his pistol not exactly pointed at Alexander, a look of caution on his face.

  “We want that one alive,” Arcand said, nodding at the sodden heap of assailant Alexander had left on the floor.

  Alexander took several deep breaths.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, stepping away from the man as Ngo and Thenjiwe crowded forward.

  Only then did he notice that the other attacker was lying on the floor with the pink and gray contents of his skull sprayed across one of the governor’s nice book cases. Alexander looked from the body to where Arcand was coolly returning his pistol to its holster. The body had one neat red entry wound in its cheek and another just over the eye cavity. It had been good shooting on Arcand’s part under stress, even at point blank range.

  Alexander hauled the man he had beaten to his feet. The man’s eyes fluttered open and he stared at the large young Zulu in unabashed fear. He muttered something through his swollen lips that sounded like, “nan con bay-oh.”

  “Take him to the medics,” Alexander said to Thenjiwe. “Make sure he lives and can talk.”

  “And tell the interrogators to add both men’s DNA to the purge list,” Arcand added.

  Fantastic, Alexander thought. More men for me to murder.

  Arcand stared hard at Alexander for a moment, as if reading his thoughts.

  Rather than chastise his subordinate, Arcand shrugged, communicating his own thoughts to Alexander quite clearly.

  C’est la guerre.

  Arcand turned to Thieu.

  “Governor, while I am only modestly conversant in your beautiful language,” he said. “I do believe, ‘Chate phan boi,’ translates to something like, ‘die traitor.’ I note also, that the insurgents managed to smuggle two captured pistols into your very house.”

  Thieu inclined his head slightly. If he was rattled by the attempt on his life, it was not apparent in his demeanor.

  “Just so, General.”

  “It appears you have just as much reason to suppress future attempts at treason as I do,” Arcand said. “That being the case, I’ll expect your full cooperation.”

  Thieu’s stony expression moved not a millimeter for three uncomfortable seconds. Then he nodded his acquiescence.

  “It will be as you say, General.”

  “Thank you, Governor,” said Arcand. “I’ll bring in my staff to go over details in two hours. In the meantime, Colonel nDlamini and I will take our leave. I’m sure you have much to do.”

  “Of course,” said Thieu. “Until next time.”

  Arcand, Alexander and their troops made for the front door, but Alexander paused a moment in front of the governor.

  “Governor Thieu?”

  The stoic old man’s face evinced clear surprise at being directly addressed by the big black mercenary.

  “Yes, Colonel, what is it?”

  “The man we captured, he said, ‘nan con bay,’ ” Alexander said. “What does it mean?”

  “Nam con bao,” Thieu said. “It means, more or less, ‘Panther Men.’”

  Thang Pho Xahn

  Three Days Later

  “Chúa ơi, không!”

  “Xin đừng! Anh ta không phải là một tên khủng bố!”

  The wails of wives, mothers, and children assaulted his senses, but Alexander pushed them firmly out of his mind as he walked amongst the prone forms of the condemned. He stood in a ditch amongst a dozen dead and dying Cochinese men, his pistol in his hand. Only he and his officers carried out the reprisals. While his men were not at all squeamish about killing, there was little honor in
shooting bound, defenseless men. His officers were carrying out their prince’s direct orders and thus had some moral top cover, and he ensured his enlisted men need not touch the task and thus remained unsullied.

  The great kings Cetshwayo and Shaka would’ve impaled these men and their families without losing a second of sleep. Alexander knew it and took great pride in the fierceness of his distant ancestors all the same, but they had not believed as he did. Alexander respected the traditions of his people, but his Catholicism was more than window dressing. While Christians throughout history hadn’t shied away from atrocity themselves, the young Zulu prince knew what the teachings of Christ dictated, and this was not it.

  And yet, the insurgents were themselves indiscriminate killers and rapists. They predated upon the very people they claimed to be liberating. They had to be stopped and moral platitudes were insufficient to the task.

  Already insects were gathering around the corpses and the heat and stench were visibly affecting even his staunchest officers.

  An old man with thick gray hair and mustache was at his feet. Looking up at the young Uruhuan prince, gasping, he seemed to be pleading for something. The rifle bullets hadn’t killed him outright.

  Leveling his pistol and aiming so as to sever the old man’s brain stem, Alexander squeezed the trigger. The crack of the .45 caliber round carried through the syrupy air. The bullet ripped out the back of the man’s cranial cavity and buried itself into the soft jungle floor.

  Heavenly Father, I cannot even pray for forgiveness. I simply pray that this is not in vain.

  Holstering his pistol, Alexander turned to his soldiers and motioned for them to bring in the next group of condemned men.

  St. Christopher’s Church

  Khoi Dau Moi

  Cochin Colony, Terra Nova

  It was late Sunday afternoon and the sun’s slanting rays still kept the interior of the church uncomfortably hot. The air in the cramped confessional booth was stifling and damp, pressing on Mai’s words as she hissed them through the privacy screen to Father Duc. Mai could hear the soft footsteps of acolytes moving about the sanctuary, cleaning up after the last Mass, so she kept her voice low despite her fury.