by John Bowers
It took them five minutes to pick their way through the craters and debris to the far end of the park. As Lt. Danby had told him, the courthouse was pretty much destroyed. A few walls and broken pillars still stood, but the main part of the building had collapsed. Gaps in the rubble appeared to lead into what was left of the interior. Kopshevar pointed at them.
“After it was over, we heard people screaming inside. Some guys from Hotel Company went in to check, and they found about sixty townspeople trapped in the jail cells in the basement.”
“Jesus!”
“Yeah, no shit. They were all alive, but some had been hurt by falling debris.”
“What were they doing there? Were the rebels holding them?”
Rudy tugged at his elbow.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you, Nick. Take a look at that!”
Nick followed Rudy’s finger to the right. And stared in shock. Eighty feet north of the courthouse stood something he had never seen in his life, and never expected to see. His scalp tingled. It was something directly out of a Yancy West vid…
A gallows.
“Are you shitting me?” he whispered. “I don’t fucking believe it!”
Built entirely of wood, the platform stood twelve feet above the ground with a beam across the top and a stairway leading up that consisted of thirteen steps. Dangling from the cross beam were six heavy ropes, each with a hangman’s knot of thirteen coils. Nick’s blood ran hot and cold as he stared at it.
“Public executions? The rebels are hanging people?”
“Yeah. We talked to the people from the jail and they told us that, since the Freaks took over, they’ve hung over a hundred people. Fifteen of those in the basement were scheduled for execution in a few days.”
“On what charge?” For the first time since he’d been on the planet, Nick felt the need to sit down. His legs felt too weak to support him.
“All kinds of shit. Breaking the Sabbath—whatever that means—disobedience to God’s law, suspicion of collaborating with the Federation, and—get this—witchcraft.”
“What!”
Rudy nodded solemnly.
“They said that six women and two young girls have already been executed as witches. Can you believe that?”
Nick stared at the gallows for long seconds, then dropped to one knee and settled himself on the ground. It was overwhelming.
“No, I can’t believe any of this! I thought they were just a bunch of religious kooks that needed to be set straight, but I never dreamed anything like this.”
“Neither did anyone else. Even the brass at Camarrel had no idea, according to Lt. Jaeger.”
Kopshevar heaved a reluctant sigh.
“I think we’re up against a much tougher enemy than we ever imagined. Anyone who would pull shit like this is capable of anything.”
Nick didn’t reply, but nodded. The rebel coalition now took on a much different image in his mind. Instead of a few misguided, Bible-thumping farmers, the Star Marines were looking at something evil, something diabolical.
Something that had to be stopped.
Cutler Crossing
Chapter 15
Federation strategy, formulated by the generals in Camarrel, was to cut the continent in half. The rebel homeland lay in the north, on the Trimmer Plain; their troops had pushed far beyond that to the very bottom of the continent, which bordered a body of water called Starlight Gulf.
The bottom third of the continent was dominated by the Alphalaya range, which the rebels had largely bypassed, but which could provide a formidable defense if they chose to occupy it. Federation Command hoped to prevent such an occupation by preventing rebel access to it. To accomplish this, two battalions of the 33rd Star Marines would be sent west across the southern plain to link up with elements of 1st Star Marine Division pushing east from Lancalpha.
In the north, 31st Star Marines would push to the southwest, from Lucaston to Monroe Falls. In the northwest, 32nd Star Marines had stopped the rebels south of Twin Harbors and would strike southeast toward Anton City. Forces from Lancalpha in the southwest would work their way northeast toward Crawford Hill, then swing east to link up with the 33rd. It would be a slow, painful process, but the goal was for all these forces to converge in the center and squeeze the Trimmer Plain, ultimately capturing Trimmer Springs and shutting down the rebellion.
With Camarrel, Goshen, and several smaller towns in Federation hands, the battle against the Coalition stabilized. The rebels and Star Marines sized each other up: the Federation had been looking at the cover, not the book, and grossly underestimated both the Coalition’s strength and determination. For their part, the rebels realized they were now facing a much tougher opponent than any they had yet seen.
Both would adjust their strategies accordingly.
Three Months Later
Friday, 17 August, 0435 (CC)
Cutler Crossing – Alpha Centauri 2
Both suns were high in the sky as Echo Company straggled down a narrow, unpaved farming road, a hundred fifty men looking for another contact with the enemy. Nick Walker walked with his head down, gasping in the stifling heat. He had already peeled off his fatigue shirt, right down to his laser vest. Several others, against orders, had removed their vests as well, letting sweat run down their naked backs. The UV radiation from twin suns baked them a golden brown, but nobody minded. Melanoma had been conquered a century ago and the tans looked nice.
But the 110-degree heat was debilitating. Nick was used to triple digits at home, so he suffered less than most, but it was still damn hot. He walked with his rifle across the back of his neck like an oxen yoke, holding the ends with both hands. He had taken a drink from his canteen thirty minutes ago, but wanted to stretch his supply as far as possible, and forced himself to wait before taking another.
In addition to being hot, he was tired, almost exhausted. No matter where they camped at night, the rebels always seemed to know, and provided a variety of harassment to prevent them getting any rest. Sometimes it was artillery, six or eight deadly salvoes spaced out over several hours. Other nights it was sporadic machine gun fire...and every now and then, rebels would hit them in a lightning raid using grenades and bayonets before fading back into the night.
It was frustrating as hell. The best-trained and equipped military force in the galaxy—the Star Marines—was being upstaged by a collection of farmers who couldn’t even afford uniforms. There had to be a lot more to that story, but Nick didn’t know what it was.
What he did know—what everyone knew, to the detriment of morale—was that they were fighting this war with both hands cuffed behind them. If the goddamn Polygon would authorize all the tools available to them, the Star Marines—or the Fed Infantry, for that matter—could have ended this thing months ago. They were fighting without armor, air power, or reinforcements. Dead and wounded were not being replaced, and even their artillery was less than full strength. Aside from their heavy weapons platoons, the only thing they had going for them were the gunsleds, which ranged ahead and guarded their flanks. But the sleds were most effective in daylight, which left the rebels owning the night.
“Where the hell are we going again?” Kopshevar asked, his voice weak and weary.
“Hell if I know,” Nick replied.
“Cutler Crossing!” said Cpl. Avila. He looked around with a sneer, as if Kopshevar was stupid for not knowing. “Didn’t you hear the briefing? Or were you fucking off again?”
Avila had replaced Mateo a week after the battle at Goshen. In lieu of real replacements, Command had decided to shuffle men from other units to fill vital holes. Avila had come over from 1st Battalion, but Nick wasn’t sure why. Jimmy Chin had been killed and Ajit Singh had rotated home after being wounded; no one had replaced them, so why replace Mateo?
Nick didn’t know, but did have a suspicion. He suspected that Avila’s old outfit wanted to get rid of him, and it wasn’t hard to imagine why. Avila had walked into 3rd Platoon with the air of roya
lty incognito, as if waiting for everyone to discover how important he was. Everything about him was objectionable, from his beak of a nose to his caustic attitude. Every time he opened his mouth, he generated animosity.
Nick took an instant dislike to him the moment they met, and was appalled when Sgt. DuBose announced that Avila would head his fire team.
When he got the chance, he pulled DuBose to one side.
“Sergeant, what the hell do we need that guy for? He’s a first-class prick!”
DuBose smiled. “You noticed that, did you?”
“Uh, yeah! It’s kind of hard to miss.”
“Relax, Walker, it’s not like he’s an officer. They gave him to me and I have to put him somewhere. Since he’s a corporal, I almost have to give him a fire team.”
“What about Jimmy Chin’s team? They’re two men short!”
“The Lieutenant is bumping Carlson up to corporal, so he has that team, and I’m shifting Rod Meredith over from Wiebe’s team to even things out.”
“You think that’s a good idea? Meredith and Hall are both gay. What if they fall in love with each other?”
DuBose shrugged. “As long as they do it on their own time, and neither of them gets pregnant, I don’t have a problem with it.
“Look, Walker, you’re twice the Star Marine that Avila is, so you should be able to keep him in line. I put him in your team because he has the rank and you didn’t want the job. If you want to change your mind about that, we might make other arrangements.”
Nick grimaced and shook his head.
“No way. Not gonna happen.”
“Okay, your decision. Enjoy your team leader.”
***
The terrain was flat and largely treeless. Cotton fields stretched to the horizon in every direction. The plants were about half grown, maybe two feet high. Nick smelled their distinctive, fibrous aroma and felt almost as if he were back home—cotton was a major crop where he grew up. The cotton blooms were just beginning to transform into bolls; in another month they would open and salt the fields with splotches of white.
In the meantime, a rifleman could easily hide between the tender green rows, if he lay flat. One might even conceal a light machine gun in there.
Another mile down the road, irrigation water flowed between the cotton rows, dropping the temperature by ten degrees. Nick felt the relative coolness and sighed in satisfaction. The mercury still stood at a hundred, but it was amazing what a difference ten degrees could make. He wiped sweat from his brow and continued plodding down the road.
No one was talking much. They had been on the move since dawn, with a five-minute break every hour. It was now approaching noon. From time to time they had seen farmworkers in the fields. They always waved and, if they got the opportunity, shook hands with a few Star Marines, thanking them for driving out the Freaks.
Just a hundred yards ahead, they could see more people working in the fields. Twelve men, maybe fifteen, were strung out down the rows with the simplest farm machinery ever designed—hoes. In spite of technological advances over the centuries, the best method of removing weeds from a cotton field was still the hoe.
“Chow break! Take twenty.”
The word filtered down the line. Nick grunted with relief and stopped walking. He dropped to one knee and unshouldered his field pack. He took another swig from his canteen, then slipped his shirt back on. Sgt. DuBose joined his squad and stood over them as they broke out ration packs and began to eat.
“Hey, Sarge!” It was Kit Carlson. “When are we gonna get where we’re going?”
“Just as soon as our skinny little legs can carry us there. In the meantime, enjoy the fresh air.”
“This air ain’t fresh,” complained David Hall. “It stinks. And it’s hotter than hell.”
“You want me to fan you, Hall?”
“Gee, wouldja, Sarge? Maybe feed me some cold grapes, too?”
“Absolutely! Take a number, I’ll get to you when it’s your turn.”
“Where do I get a number?”
“I’m giving it to you now. Your number is three thousand and one. I’m working my way in your direction. Right now I’m on number four.”
“Seriously, Sergeant,” Nick said. “How much farther is Cutler Crossing?”
“Seriously, I don’t know. If I had to guess, I would say four or five miles. We should be there in another hour.”
DuBose wandered away. The squad sat eating in silence. Nick’s ration consisted of cold beans and honey-sweetened cornbread, with some kind of gelatin for dessert. The beans were good, and he loved cornbread, but this bread was sweet, and he hated that. Cornbread wasn’t supposed to be sweet.
He ate it anyway.
Avila, who was the fastest eater Nick had ever met, threw his empty ration pack down beside the road and wiped his hands together. He turned to Kopshevar.
“Okay, Kopycat, you and I need to talk.”
“Kopshevar,” Nick said.
“What?”
“His name is Kopshevar. I gave him the nickname Kopycat. You don’t get to use it.”
Avila, always quick to condescend, smiled, but it wasn’t friendly.
“Fuck you, Walker. He’s my man and I’ll call him whatever the hell I want.”
Nick also smiled. He reached inside his shirt and pretended to withdraw a pen. He scribbled on his left hand with the imaginary pen, then put it away.
“You going to leave your trash out in the open?” he asked Avila.
“Yeah. I don’t see any garbage bins around, do you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem, but Lt. Jaeger might. The Freaks see your garbage, they’ll know we were here.”
Avila sneered. “I think they already have a pretty good idea where we are. So fuck off.”
Nick withdrew the imaginary pen and began scribbling on his hand again. Avila’s cheeks turned red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just making a note.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“About you, Corporal. When I testify at your starcourt, I don’t want to forget anything.”
He put the “pen” away again.
Avila glared at him, then turned to Kopshevar again.
“Kopycat—”
“INCOMING!!!”
Still seated on the ground, Nick glanced up in alarm. Men were scattering in all directions, most of them running into the fields alongside the road. He heard the whine of incoming ordnance, and barely had time to flop over onto his side before the first salvo hit. The ground bucked as concussion sucked the air out of his lungs. Sharp steel fragments sprayed the road. Smoke and dirt billowed into the sky, carrying with it mud, cotton plants, and one steel helmet.
Gasping for air, Nick rolled onto his stomach and dug in with his elbows. He pulled himself along the ground until he was off the road and bellied up at the end of a cotton row. Looking back, he couldn’t see a single Star Marine still on the road…except for three casualties. One man was holding what remained of his leg, screaming his head off. Two others lay still.
Nick managed to suck air into his lungs and hugged the ground, wishing he could burrow beneath it. He had heard five or six explosions, and in spite of the ringing in his ears, heard another salvo dropping in. This one also hit the road, but twenty yards closer to where he lay. He buried his face in the mud and covered his head with both arms. Concussion hit him harder, throwing him onto his back; shrapnel shredded the tops of the cotton plants next to him, but somehow missed his body.
He rolled face-down again and braced himself for a third salvo, but it didn’t come. The smoke drifted away, the dust began to settle. Men sat up and looked around, slightly dazed. No one was in a hurry to expose himself, in case a spotter was waiting to call in a third salvo.
On the road, Cpl. Starling was bent over the man with the missing leg. Lt. Jaeger joined him and used his command channel to call for an H
VM. Others slowly returned to the road, brushing mud off their fatigues and emptying sand out of their helmets.
“Where the hell are the gunsleds when we need them?” Rod Meredith muttered. “I thought they were patrolling ahead of us!”
“Hey! What happened to those farmworkers?” another Star Marine said. “One minute they’re there, now they’re gone.”
“Probably still flat on their faces. Scared shitless.”
Nick, now on his feet, stared at the area where he’d last seen the workers. They had vanished. Surely they hadn’t all been killed, as the shells had landed nowhere near them. So where were they?
He felt a crawl of apprehension, and checked his rifle to make sure the dirt and mud hadn’t fouled it.
Lt. Jaeger’s voice boomed into his ear from the helmet speakers.
“Third Platoon, listen up! That group of farmers we saw a few minutes ago has disappeared. They could be rebel scouts and maybe they called in the artillery on us. First Squad, move fifty yards to the right, then approach their position. Second Squad, flank them on the left. Everyone else, keep alert. If they try to open fire, cut ‘em down!”
“What if they don’t open fire?” Kopshevar muttered, but not into the comm.
Nick was already on his feet, bent over, running into the cotton field. His boots splashed in the irrigation water. His pulse was racing, but he could safely say he was no longer scared. After three months on the planet, he’d been under fire often enough that it no longer terrified him, and his fatalism was a great comfort—he knew he was going to die, so why worry about it? The only question was where and when.
Avila was right behind him, the rest of the squad following. Nick ran until he estimated he’d gone fifty yards, then swung left and crouched even lower. Now he stepped on the rows, smashing the plants under foot as he sought traction in the muddy ground. Ahead to his left he saw the men of 2nd Squad, maybe seventy-five yards away, angling toward him. If the farmworkers were still where they had last been seen, the two squads should converge on them within the next minute.
