Sergei Kamov watched his daughter. For a month now, she had been tending the wounded captive, whom Kamov had been surprised to learn actually knew a smattering of Russian. And he had learned more very quickly.
When you’ve lost an arm at the elbow and a leg at the knee, Kamov reflected, you probably appreciate the opportunity to concentrate on something else. Like a language.
He looked at the Sauron pilot--Stahler, his name was--and how he looked at Natalya ... or a pretty young girl, he amended his thought.
The Sauron had healed surprisingly fast, Kamov noted. So fast that he had been well enough to be handed over to Cummings’ people at the rendezvous. But Kamov, new headman of Haven’s Don Cossacks, had explicitly forbidden any of his people to even mention their “guest,” and General Cummings and Colonel Kettler had returned to their valley empty-handed.
Sergei had not forgotten Kettler’s gamble with his life and that of his family. Nor had he appreciated how long it had been before the medical aid facility which Cummings had promised had arrived. Four of their people that might have been saved had died of gangrene, and Kamov had begun to have very serious doubts about this policy of attrition advocated by Cummings and Kettler.
He watched as Nikolai went to check on Natalya and her charge; his son seemed to be getting along well with the Sauron. And why not? He was just a soldier, doing a soldier’s work. His part in what happened was, at least, honest.
In truth, Kamov himself found it difficult not to like this Stahler.
He heard Natalya laugh; a rich, strong, woman’s laugh. He saw the flush in her cheeks at something Stahler said as he leaned forward to point at Nikolai’s legendary sidearm, and his arm brushed against Natalya’s and stayed there a little longer than necessary.
His own people would put him in a breeding facility if he were to go back, Kamov knew from talks with Stahler. Locked into a hospital bed for ten years or more until he died of boredom. That’s no life for a man. And when he was better . . . well, Kamov had known a great many one-legged horsemen, with less strength and physical ability than this Sauron, crippled though he might be. “A cossack without a horse is like a man without legs,” Kamov mused aloud. But a Cossack with a horse doesn’t need legs.
Nikolai had left them, and Kamov saw Natalya and Stahler talking in much lower voices, now. The blush was back, and Stahler seemed a bit reserved himself.
Good, Kamov decided. He had lost a son; he would take a son-in-law.
Cummings would go mad if he ever found out, of course, but what of it? It was his man Kettler who had given him the idea, after all. Hadn’t he told them all that the Saurons wanted was Haven women to breed their next generation of Soldiers? All right, then.
Sergei Kamov watched his daughter lean forward, receiving and taking her first kiss from his future son-in-law, and thought about what mighty cossacks his grandchildren would be.
Two could play at that game.
Excerpt from the personal log of Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate Timothy Ferguson, Imperial Navy (Retired):
Twenty years today since I received my retirement papers and headed home to Haven. I took a lump sum retirement in lieu of pension, knowing Haven was a long way from the nearest Imperial paymaster. I still remember the trouble I had getting back here. I’d taken passage to Friedland, having heard that the 77th was getting ready to pull out. I was hoping to ride deadhead on one of the troop ships going from Friedland to Haven. But they’d already left by the time I got there, and no one else was interested in going to Haven, so I spent the next ten years knocking around the Empire, pinching my pennies and working for my passages. When I finally got to Tanith Sector, it was another two before I found the old Sintax, a tramp freighter that had seen better days, better years in fact.
I remember how relieved I was to convince her master that there was still a chance to make money with a cargo of shimmerstones, and that my services as a liaison and guide were worth a free one-way trip. I spent what was left of my lump sum on trade goods, and off we went. Sintax was the first ship into Haven in four years, and as far as I know she was the last one out.
What little government Haven had under the Empire was virtually gone. I was lucky that my home town, Ellington, was in one of the more “civilized” areas. Lord knows what I would have blundered into otherwise. I had grown up in farming country, always pretty much self sufficient, and folks had banded together to form a reasonably democratic government and fairly strong militia. I used my trade goods to have a sturdy house built on a bluff overlooking the Jordan River, and other than dealing with some pranks and trespassing by local kids, have lead a fairly peaceful existence.
Peaceful but empty. I have no ties left here, no friends. I have no responsibilities, but no purpose either. Just killing time . . .
THE BOATSWAIN, A.L. Brown
The day the invaders came, we were crouched in the bushes beside a secluded roadway, waiting for a call from Suzy, who was down the road about a quarter mile. My mouth was dry and I was scared.
As if he could read my mind, Doug grinned and said, “Nervous, Jim?”
“Not really,” I replied. I wasn’t about to admit what I was thinking. These weren’t the kind of pals you shared your innermost feelings with. Suzy’s voice came through a commset, “Here he comes. Do it now.”
We all pulled stockings over our heads, and Tommy raised his ax and made the final cut into the trunk of a tree. It crashed down across the road just as the liquor delivery truck came around the corner. The driver screeched to a halt. Imagine how he felt when he jumped out, trying to figure out where the tree had come from, and saw the ten of us with our faces covered. His eyes were as big as saucers.
I turned to look at Jack, our leader, and just about crapped in my drawers. The driver wasn’t the only one surprised. Jack had pulled a shotgun with a collapsible stock out of the canvas bag at his feet, and was aiming it at the driver.
Jack gestured with the shotgun barrel, “Over here and down on the ground.”
The guy’s eyes got even bigger, and he did exactly what Jack said. Doug tied his arms, put a sack over his head, and with Tommy, led him off into the woods. They were to bring the guy someplace it would take him a few hours to find his way out of, and meet us later.
The rest of us moved the tree out of the way and rode off in the truck. Everybody was laughing like fiends, everybody but me. I just kept thinking about that shotgun. A little vandalism and graffiti, taking cars for joy-rides, even roughing some assholes up; that was fine by me. Being an accessory to armed robbery was a little much. Maybe there was such a thing as too much adventure.
We drove the truck to the old abandoned Radcliffe place and hid it in the barn. We were just getting started on one hell of a party when the song on our radio cut out, and an announcer started to scream about pirates invading from space. As if Haven had anything worth their time. We thought it was a joke until the horizon lit up and the earth shook as the first nuke hit Fort Fornova.
It was a strange moment. Sandra started to sniffle a little, and some of the others looked a bit sick, but Jack changed the mood by scooping up a bottle of booze and shouting, “All the more reason to party, for tomorrow we may die!”
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
I was asleep, napping in front of the vidscreen. I was dreaming I was stuck on the ground on Tabletop, watching another mushroom cloud in the distance; a Sauron hellhomb, slipped through the point defense. I was helpless, stranded in a local hotel. I wished I was back on the ship. At least then I could be fighting back. I wondered how the watch section was doing, fighting the ship shorthanded.
Suddenly my glass slid off the table and shattered on the floor. The noise woke me, and I realized I was on Haven, at home in my living room. But the aftershock continued, and when I stepped out on the porch, I could see the familiar mushroom shape rising in the direction of Fort Fornova. This was no dream . . .
After all I had done that day, I never expect
ed to end up in church that night. Yeah, I heard the bells ringing, but I could have stayed back at the Radcliffe’s barn with my bunch, sucking on some of our stolen booze, smoking euph leaf, and watching the fireworks. The planetary defenses continued to test the invaders, and streaks and balls of fire lit the night. At one point, a fireball lit the sky to the south; another nuclear strike. Everyone was excited--Jack, Sandra, Tommy, Nick, Suzy, Paul and Doug. They seemed convinced that this should be the party to end all parties. This was the wildest thing we’d ever seen. Nothing ever happened up here in the headwaters of the Jordan River; not to someone seventeen and wanting to see the worlds. Hell, most people’s parents moved here because it was so quiet. We were all joking about the things we might never have to do; go back to school, get a job, and maybe not even be around in the morning to suffer the consequences of our partying.
I was keeping up with the best of ‘em when I heard the bells. My first thought was how stupid it was to call on a God who had obviously abandoned us. Until I remembered Mom would be there, like she had been so much since Dad had died. It scared me to think how she must be feeling, the way she always worried. I started to feel guilty, and all of a sudden the bunch didn’t seem so fun anymore, so I slipped to the back of the group and over the hill. As I was walking, a tight formation of military jets screamed over, about 500 meters up. When I got to the church, everyone was already singing a hymn, and I slipped into the pew beside Mom. She looked like hell, with her eyes all red and streaks down her face. But the smile she gave me made me sure I’d done the right thing. I looked around the church. There was old Reverend Quinnel up front, looking as sour as usual, and a bit like he’d been sucking some booze himself. In the pews around me was a small and sorry lot. Young Mrs. Jackson; wife of a merchant seaman, pregnant with her first child. Three couples and their kids in farming clothes; the Carlsons, Lius, and Slimaks. Doctor Lamp-son; retired sociology professor. The two widows; Thomas and Alvarez. Nikko Tomek; the church’s mentally retarded caretaker. And in back, with a face carved from stone; that bastard Ferguson. He was a retired Imperial Navy Master Chief Boatswains Mate, a cranky old gimpy guy. I’d hated him ever since I was twelve, when he’d caught me stealing apples from his orchard and knocked me out with a sonic stunner.
The song ended and the minister led everyone through the normal service, but skipped the sermon and gave a quick benediction. As he started to rush down the aisle, Ferguson limped out to block his path.
“Father,” he said, making the title sound like an insult, “your flock needs some guidance.”
I grinned. This could be interesting. These two hadn’t gotten along from the day they met. The Reverend rose to his full height of one hundred seventy centimeters and almost growled at Ferguson.
“What do you mean, guidance? We are pawns in a larger struggle, one that our puny efforts cannot change. Our fate is in the Lord’s hands”
“I figgered you’d think that way,” snorted Ferguson. “Me, I always heard that the Lord helps those that help themselves. So I think we need to talk about what we can do to keep ourselves alive.”
“And how,” snapped Quinnel, “do you propose to do that?”
“Well,” said Ferguson, turning so he addressed the rest of the congregation as well as the Reverend, “I’ve been usin’ an old military commset in my den to listen in on both the invaders and our folks. These may be pirates, but this is no smash-and-grab raid. It seems they want to set up shop here on Haven, and that here at the head of the valley, we’re sitting on top of real estate they want for their own. So if we want to live as slaves, we should all stay put. If we want to live free, we have to travel west, down the river.”
“And where do you plan to go?” shot back Quinnel.
“Well,” said Ferguson, “I thought that sister church of ours, Jacksonville Methodist, might be a good place.”
“That’s over five thousand kilometers away! It’s almost all the way down to the escarpment on the Xanadu, south of Hell’s-a-Comin’. Are you crazy?”
“Yeah, and I’m also alive and free, and plan to stay that way.
“I have no time for madness. These are pirates. If we all lay low and keep our heads, they will soon be gone,” said the Reverend as he pushed his way toward the door. “The less you listen to this man the better.”
As he left, all our eyes turned to Ferguson. He described his plan in a low raspy monotone. It sounded crazy to me. He wanted us to build a big raft out of egg tree trunks, build a shelter on it, and lash Doc Lampson’s pleasure cruiser into it for power. If we kept on the move, Ferguson figured we could make it to the mouth of the river in time for the start of the next growing season, and hopefully find some measure of welcome.
Ferguson tried to convince us that even though the trip would be long and probably dangerous, it was better than the horrors we were likely to face at the hands of the invaders. He said no matter how far we got down the river, each kilometer we traveled would be another one between us and them. He warned us that what order was left on Haven was sure to break down, that people would start getting crazy and dangerous, and that we all needed to stick together. With a haunted look in his eyes, he told us stories from his Navy career; stories about assault landings on disputed planets, about pitched battles in space, and about atrocities against civilians.
The way he talked began to turn people around. I caught Liu looking at Carlson with a question in his eye. When Carlson nodded, the tide turned and soon everybody but me seemed to be on board. Me, I said no, speaking for both myself and my mom. I still wasn’t sure we could trust the crazy old man. I didn’t think Mom could make a hard trip like that, and besides, why leave a place where I had so many friends. I took Mom home, helped her to bed. Instead of going to bed myself, though, I slipped back out to find my bunch.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
I guess this log of mine may become more important. I remember what my last commanding officer, Captain Higgins, told me about his personal log. I had been up in his cabin on some disciplinary business when he confided in me that a log allowed him to feel like he was getting things off his chest, things that as skipper he had no business confiding in his crew. I never really thought much about what he’d said until now. But at this point I need all the advice I can get. Other than conning some orbital gigs, this will be my first taste of command. I hope I’m up to it.
Most everyone is falling into line without a problem. I have mixed feelings about the Schmidts, Jim and his mother, staying behind. He’s an insufferable little shit, hut a strong and capable one. If he did come along, I could probably break him to the yoke. After all, I’ve done it with enough recruits over the years . . .
The Radcliffe barn was on fire, and the heat dried my eyes as I peered into the column of orange light and heat. It looked like everyone was gone. There was a small bundle lying next to the spot where the bunch had been hanging out, surrounded by empty and broken bottles. As I walked closer, my heart went into my throat. The bundle was little Suzy, with her clothes torn up, still as a post; her bulging eyes stared blankly at the fire. At first, I wondered if the pirates could have attacked. But there were no laser or bullet wounds that I could see. She’d been beaten, cut up, and it looked like choked. I felt for a pulse but there was none. I realized that it must have been people from the bunch that had killed her.
I had never liked Suzy myself. She had always been too quick to jump from guy to guy, and enjoyed playing us off against each other. But nobody deserved this. I felt a tightness in my chest and a catch in my throat. Suddenly, I was on my knees, puking my guts out. After a few minutes, I got up and headed for home. As I walked, I thought. Maybe Ferguson was smarter than I gave him credit for. When I got home, I pulled out my dad’s old hunting rifle, loaded it, and sat on the porch awake until a red and fiery Cat’s Eye finally brightened the eastern sky. Then I got Mom up and we walked to Ferguson’s house.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguso
n, I.N.(RET):
. .. I spent the night refining my plans. There are a number of tall egg trees growing on the bank of the river below my house. I figure that a raft ten by twenty meters should be large enough to hold all of us. By taking apart my garage, we’ll have enough lumber to build a shelter on it. We could dismantle the house, too, but somehow that seems like a crime, to destroy a perfectly functional home on a world where so much has already been destroyed. I figure we can split the shelter into four or five rooms. Two large rooms, one for berthing men and boys, and one for women and girls. A small stateroom for me, one where married couples can take turns getting away (I wish we had room for staterooms for all of them), and maybe a small storeroom. We can tether to the raft what small boats we can gather. And I figure if we build a deep notch in the back of the raft, we can lash in Doc Lampson’s ten meter cruiser to give us power and steering control. With its solar charged cruising motor, one thing we won’t have to worry about is fuel. .. .
The building of the raft took two brightdays and two dimdays of hard work. We used Doc Lampson’s pier as a base for outfitting it. Ferguson was a real bastard, and drove us like we were slaves. The little grey-haired guy was everywhere, following us all around with that slow shuffling walk of his. The first day things went slow, but when Widow Alvarez went home that evening to find a gutted house, it gave us all motivation to work as fast as we could. It seemed like Ferguson was right. Even though the pirates were nowhere near us yet, things were already going to hell. After that, Ferguson had us ferrying supplies from our houses to the raft in groups, with at least two armed people in each group. The stuff we brought from his house was amazing. Military gear of all types: two radiation suits, comms gear, infrared goggles, ration packs, three helmets, and more. A sonic stunner, probably the same one he had used on me five years ago. Other weapons of all types: a half dozen pistols, an assault rifle, two shotguns, a laser rifle and even a 20mm chain gun with 2,000 rounds of ammo. This guy was some kind of weird. Between that stuff and the hunting rifles most of the rest of us owned, we were going to be armed to the teeth.
War World IV: Invasion Page 13
