Hope Rearmed

by David Drake

  * * *

  “That Bureaucrat’s Bottom is slowing you down, Whitehall,” Gerrin Staenbridge taunted, and lunged.

  Clack. The double-weight wooden practice sabers met, touched. Lunge, parry from the wrist, feint, cut-stamp-cut. They advanced and retreated across the carefully-uneven gravel-rock-earth floor of the salle d’armes. The scuff of feet and slamming clatter of oak on oak echoed from the high whitewashed walls. For a moment they went corps-a-corps.

  “Save your breath . . . old man,” Raj grunted. A convulsive heave sent them to blade’s length again.

  In fact, neither man was carrying an ounce of spare flesh, something fully apparent since they were stripped to the waist for the exercise, with only face-masks as protection. Staenbridge was a little thicker through the shoulders, Raj slightly longer in the arm; both big men and hugely strong for their size, moving with the carnivore grace of those who had killed often with cold steel and trained since birth. Raj was drilling hard because it was a way to burn out the poisons of frustration that were worse with every passing week. Staenbridge met the fury of his attack with six extra years of experience. Sweat hung heavy on the dry hot air, slicking down torsos marked with the scars of every weapon known on Bellevue.

  “Ahem.” Then louder: “Ahem!”

  They disengaged, leaped back and lowered their blades. Raj ripped the face-mask off and turned, chest pumping like a deep slow bellows. The salle d’armes of the Wager Bay commandants seemed frozen for a moment in time; Ludwig Bellamy practicing forms before a mirror, Kaltin Gruder on a masseurs table; Fatima on a bench keeping a careful grip on young Bartin Staenbridge, the three-year-old was supposed to be getting his first taste of training but showed a disconcerting tendency to run in wherever there was action. Outside in the courtyard Suzette wrote a letter at a table beneath a trellis of bougainvillea. Her pen poised over the paper. The slapping of the masseur’s hands ran down into silence.

  Bartin Foley was sweating too, as if he had run some way in the heat.

  “Far be it from me, Messers, to disturb this tranquil scene—”

  Raj made a warning sound and snatched at the paper that the younger man pulled out of his helmet-lining. Everyone recognized the purple seal. Raj’s hands shook very slightly as he broke it.

  He looked up and nodded, then tossed the Gubernatorial Rescript back to Foley and accepted the towel from the servant

  “The Brigaderos won some skirmish on the frontier,” he said. “A regiment of their dragoons whipped on some tribal auxiliaries of ours. Forker is claiming that indicates who the Spirit of Man favors. The Governor has ordered me to reduce the Western Territories to obedience, commencing immediately. With full proconsular authority for one year, or the duration of the war.”

  A sigh ran through the room. “Everything but the men, the dogs and a change of underdrawers is on the ships,” Staenbridge said.

  Raj nodded again. “Tomorrow with the evening tide,” he said softly.

  The main municipal stadium of Port Wager had superb acoustics; it was used for public speaking and theatre, as well as bullfights and baseball games. It was well into the morning when the last unit filed in; since there were so many This Earth cultists in the ranks now, Raj had held religious services by groups of units rather than for the whole force. And dropped in on every one of them personally, and be damned what the priests would say back in East Residence.

  He knew what the Spirit of Man, of This Earth and the Stars, needed. What his men needed.

  Silence fell like a blade as he walked out. The tiers of seats that rose in a semicircle up the hillside were blue with the uniform coats of the troops; the paler faces turned toward him like flowers towards the sun as he walked up the steps of the timber podium. The blue and silver Starburst backed it; beyond that was the harbor and the masts of the waiting ships. In front the unit banners of thirty battalions were planted in the sand.

  Raj faced his men, hands clenched behind his back.

  “Fellow soldiers,” he began. A long surf-wave of noise rose from the packed ranks, like a wave over deep ocean. The impact was stunning in the confined space. So was the response when he raised a hand; suddenly he could hear the blood beating in his own ears.

  “Fellow soldiers, those of you who’ve campaigned with me before, in the desert, at Sandoral where we crushed Jamal’s armies, in the Southern Territories where we broke a kingdom in one campaign—you and I, we know each other.”

  This time the sound was white noise, physically painful. He raised his hand again and felt it cease, like Horace answering to the rein. The raw intoxication of it struck him for a moment; this was true power. Not the ability to compel, but thousands of armed men willing to follow where he led—because he could lead.

  remember, you are human, Center’s voice whispered. They would follow; and many would die. Duty was heavier than mountains.

  “You know what’s demanded of you now,” he went on.

  “For those of you who haven’t been in the field with me before, only this: obey your orders, stand by your comrades and your salt. Treat the peasants kindly; we’re fighting to give them right governance, not to oppress them. Treat captive foes according to the terms of their surrender, for my honor and yours and the sake of good faith between fighting men.

  “And never, never be afraid to engage anyone who stands before you. Because nowhere in this world will you meet troops who are your equal. The Spirit of Man marches with us!”

  The shouting started with the former Squadrones, the 1st and 2nd Cruisers.

  “Hail! Hail! Hail!”

  Their deep-chested bellows crashed into the moment of silence after Raj finished speaking. The 5th Descott and the 7th, the Slashers—one by one they rose to their feet, helmets on the muzzles of their rifles.

  “RAJ! RAJ! RAJ!”

  “By the Spirit, these are good troops,” Gerrin Staenbridge said, watching the troopers lead their mounts onto a transport. The big animals walked cautiously onto the gangplanks, testing the footing with each step.

  “About the best fighting army the Civil Government’s ever fielded,” Raj said.

  using reasonable equalizing assumptions, that statement is accurate to within 7%, Center observed.

  Staenbridge rapped his knuckles on the helmet he carried in the crook of his arm. “My oath, with sixty thousand like them we could sweep the earth.”

  bellevue, Center corrected in Raj’s mind, so restated, and speaking of the main continental mass, probability of victory for such a force over all civilized opponents would be 76% ±3, under your leadership, Center said.

  “Unfortunately, Gerrin,” Raj said, settling his own helmet and buckling the chinstrap.

  A groom brought up Horace; was towed up by Horace, rather, when the hound scented its master. He put a hand on the smooth warm curve of the black dog’s neck.

  “Unfortunately, the question isn’t whether we can conquer the world with sixty thousand—it’s whether we can conquer two hundred thousand Brigaderos warriors with less than twenty thousand.”

  probability of successful outcome 50% ±10, with an exceptionally large number of overdetermined individually contingent factors, Center admitted, in colloquial terms, too close to call.

  Raj took Horace’s reins in his hand below the angle of his jaw. Suzette was coaxing her palfrey Harbie towards the gangplank as well; the mounts knew they would be separated from their riders for the voyage, and were whimpering their displeasure. That was why it was best for the owner to settle the dog, if their primary bond was to the rider and not the grooms.

  He took a deep breath. “Let’s go find out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sixty or so dogs waded out on the beach in a group; they shook themselves in a salt-water thunderstorm and fell to greeting each other after the voyage in an orgy of tail-wagging, behind-sniffing, muzzle-licking, growling and stiff-legged hackle-showing.

  “Just like a bunch of East Residence society matrons at a ball,” Suzette obser
ved in passing, shouldering her Colonial-made carbine.

  The command group gave a harsh collective chuckle and turned back to the map pinned to the stunted pricklebark tree.

  “Landing’s going well,” Jorg Menyez observed.

  “Ought to, the practice we’ve had,” Raj said.

  The Civil Government fleet lay off a low coastline of sand, scree, heather and reddish native groundrunner; inland it rose to clumps of dark oakwood separated by meadows where the grass was thigh-high and straw-yellow. Sandspits a kilometer offshore broke the force of the surf, and a gently-shelving sandy bottom made it easier to beach the smaller vessels. Those had been run in at high tide a few hours ago, and a steam ram was already towing an empty one off stern-first to make room for the others. Piles of bales and crates and square-sided, rope-handled ammunition boxes were going up above the high-water mark; there were even a few determined camp-followers, soldiers’ women and servants—cavalry troopers were allowed one per eight-man squad—wading ashore already as well.

  A 5th master-sergeant and two other troopers came up to the dogs; they each bridled the dominant animal in a platoon-pack and led it off after a few warning nose-thumps with the handles of their dogwhips convinced the beasts that it was time to go back to work.

  “Follow t’heel, ye bitches’ brood!” the noncom shouted, and set off at a trot upslope to the perimeter the first-in units had established. Cavalry might fight mostly on foot, but they felt extremely uncomfortable without their mounts to hand. The rest of the giant carnivores followed along after, heads up and sniffing the wind blowing from inland. More dogs were swimming for the shore; from the way a few pursuing longboats darted about out by the skerries, the usual scattering of animals determined to try swimming back to their last port of call were being rounded up.

  The larger ships, four hundred to eight hundred tons, were anchored offshore. Cargo nets swung stores and equipment down to boats; or a field-gun down to a stout raft of barrels and timbers Dinnalsyn’s men had knocked together. Rowboats towed it toward the shore, the brass fittings of its breech glittering in the morning sun, as bright as the droplets of spray cast up by the oars. Company after company of infantry scrambled down nets from the grounded ships, fell in to the shouts and whistles of their officers, and marched upslope. The metal-leather-sweat-dogshit smell of an Army encampment was already overlaying the clean odors of sea and heath.

  Twenty thousand humans and ten thousand dogs were coming ashore, and Raj intended to have the whole process completed by nightfall.

  “Jorg,” he went on. The infantry colonel sneezed and nodded. “I want your infantry to—”

  “Make the standard fortified camp, I know,” he said. “We also serve who only dig ditches.” The ground was fairly flat, so the men would scarcely need the artillery to drive stakes for layout; they could make a standard camp in their sleep, and sometimes did after a forced march. He looked around; there were no large Brigade settlements within a day’s march, by the map.

  “Since we’re only staying a few nights, is that entirely necessary? There’s a great deal else for the men to do.”

  Raj grinned like a carnosauroid. “That’s what I thought at Ksar Bourgie,” he said. “And nearly got converted to a hareem attendant by Tewfik. Dig in, if you please. The men can set up their tents or not, the weather looks to stay fine, but I want the firing parapet, the pit-latrines and the water supply laid on as if we were going to be here a month.”

  “Ci, mi heneral.”

  “The armored cars are coming ashore,” Dinnalsyn noted. “Do you want them assembled?”

  The artilleryman sounded slightly ambivalent. Raj knew how he felt. The vehicles were boiler-plate boxes on wheels, propelled by the only gas engines in the Civil Government, expensively hand-made. They were temperamental and delicate, required constant maintenance, and had to be hauled by oxen if they moved any distance overland. They were a hell of noise and fumes and heat for the crews in operation. Still, with riflemen or light cannon firing from behind bulletproof cover, they could be decisive at a critical point—and that made up for the endless bother of hauling them around.

  Raj nodded. “Just the frames and shells,” he said. The engines and armament could be fitted in a day or two and the empty shells were much easier to transport.

  “Right,” Raj went on, “this is the Crown Peninsula.” He tapped the thumb-shaped outline on the map; it stuck out from the main coast of the Western Territories on the eastern fringe. “We’re here.” On the west coast, a hundred kilometers up from Lion City, the provincial capital, and across five hundred klicks of open water from the coast nearest the Old Residence.

  “We’ll secure the Crown and Lion City, then advance north”—he traced a line northwestward—“cross the Waladavir River at the bridge here or here where it’s fordable, then move southeast toward Old Residence. What exactly we do then depends on opportunity and the enemy, but I intend to have the city before the winter sets hard.

  “Our immediate objective is to pacify the Crown outside Lion City. The city has the only real garrison, about four thousand of the General’s regulars; for the rest, it’s the landowners’ household troops we’ll be facing. I expect most of them to give up, but don’t count on it in any particular case.

  “Gerrin, you take two-thirds of the 5th, the 2nd Residence Battalion and two guns, and head northwest up the coast road.” His other hand pointed inland. “Hadolfo, your Borderers and the 1st Cruisers, two guns, northeast. Kaltin, you take the 7th Descott and three guns—you’ve got a couple of crossroads towns and may need them—and head directly east. Ehwardo, you’ve got Poplanich’s Own and the Maximilliano Dragoons and a battery. Go southeast, to the other side of the Crown, down the main spinal road. Ludwig, you take the 2nd Cruisers and the Rogor Slashers and two batteries. Head straight south down to the gates of Lion City, and make sure nobody gets in or out. The city’s going to be enough of a problem without too many household units stiffening their defense.”

  Suzette returned, with a string of HQ servants bearing trays of grilled sausages in split rolls. Everyone grabbed one; Raj used his to gesture between bites.

  “You’ve all seen the sicklefoot and trihorn matches?”

  A chorus of nods. Trihorns were browsing sauroids with bone armor on their head and shoulders, up to six tons of vile temper, common in thinly-peopled wilderness. Sicklefeet were smallish carnosauroids, a little more than man-size with a huge curved dewclaw on their hind feet, usually held up against the leg; they hunted in packs, vicious and incredibly agile, leaping in the air to extend their claws and kick-slash their prey to death. The two species rarely interacted in their natural habitats, but they were often matched in large city stadiums in the Civil Government.

  “We’re the sicklefeet, the Brigaderos are the trihorns. If we let them use their strength, they’ll crush us. We slash and move and let them bleed to death.”

  Raj put his hand on the map, palm on the landing ground and fingers splayed out across the map. Then he rotated the hand, pulling the fingers together as they approached Lion City.

  “You’ll move south clockwise, sweeping the countryside repeatedly; Ludwig, you’re the anvil for any who filter past. Speed and impact, everyone—don’t pee on them, boot their heads. If we give them time to catch their breath, we’ll have bands of them hiding in the woods for years, and we do not have enough troops to garrison. Stamp on anyone who actively resists; stamp hard, strike terror. Strip those who surrender of every weapon down to their belt-knives and every man who even looks like a soldier and send them back to base; we’ll run them to East Residence in the returning transports and commandeered shipping. I don’t want an ounce of powder or lead left available, either. Destroy whatever weapons you can’t easily cart away; once we’ve got the area pacified, Administrator Historiomo will be raising a police and militia from the native population, and we can use the captured weapons to arm them.

  “Again, messers, the only way we can dominate so larg
e an area with so few troops is to roll them up before they realize what’s hit them. If we look like winners, the native population will also rally to us, and we need their active support against the Brigaderos. What happens in the Crown will be crucial to the whole campaign.

  “Jorg, there’s going to be plenty for you to do as well. All the flying columns will be sending back prisoners by the hundreds; they’ll also be calling on you for temporary infantry garrisons to hold confiscated supplies, weapons, and strategic spots.

  “You’ve all got the intelligence reports,” he went on. “I’ve noted the magnate families I want hostages from. We’ll move them back here on a temporary basis until we have something better available, along with the soldiers, but they can’t be mixed in. Suzette—”

  “I’ll see to it,” she said.

  Keeping the hostages—not happy—but not impossibly demoralized would be difficult, with the stringent limits on resources available. A dead hostage was worse than a dead loss, and a mistreated one could provoke suicidal resistance among the Brigade nobility. Most of them would be women and children, and of noble birth; Lady Whitehall would soothe some of the fears and prickly status-conciousness. Thus keeping them out of his hair, and the families they stood surety for quiet as well. That could be worth more than battalions of troops in garrisons in pacifying the area.

  “Muzzaf?” Raj went on. The Komarite had been ashore for a day, operating under cover.

  “Seyor, I’ve already contacted some of the local merchants in the farm-towns. We can expect them, and local peasants and native landowners, to be bringing in supplies within a day at any point we designate. I didn’t tell them where, of course.”

  Raj nodded approval. “Do so now. What with prisoners, camp followers and troops we’ll have to feed forty thousand or better soon. Now, you may all have noticed that it’s cooler here.” They all nodded; the temperature was warm-comfortable, rather than the blazing heat of Stern Isle in late summer. “The rains start earlier here—and it rains more than back home. We’re racing against time. Questions?”