by Blaze Ward
Fraser dropped the lenses to stare at the man beside him, sure he had misheard.
“A what?”
All conversation stopped as a shockwave of sound rolled over them and hammered them face down into the dirt, coming up from behind the five men. It took several seconds for the sound to fade.
Fraser watched the tail of the small fighter craft that had passed over them low enough to be felt, almost fast enough to break the sound barrier on this planet.
“I’m pretty sure that’s a Republic of Aquitaine M–6 Gungnir, Captain,” Roald spoke up in the raw silence.
What the hell would the Republic be doing here?
Fraser studied the men with him. On the one hand, anything that broke the hold of Imperial Security. On the other, would they just be changing masters and villains?
Fraser still thought of himself as a patriot in the loose sense. The men and women in his troop, and the other troops he was aware of, had been driven to criminality by the Duke and his bully–men. Minor infractions merited significant punishments. Men and women were jailed by Imperial Security for speaking out.
Jeannine rebuffed the sexual advances of a mid–ranking officer. So they had shot her instead as an example. Right there in the street.
Conrad’s only crime had been to organize the men in one of the satellite mines to strike for better working conditions than the near–slavery they faced daily. He still had the scars and burns on his back to show for it.
And Fraser had a major bounty on his head.
Killing would–be rapists tended to piss people off. At least, the bullies. The regular citizenry didn’t exhibit the same sort of rabid Imperial fanaticism about that sort of thing.
“Orders, Captain?” Conrad asked quietly.
How screwed are we? the man was really asking.
Fraser’s crystal ball refused to clarify that one. He turned back to look at the wide, broad valley below them.
There were a LOT of craft dropping from orbit right now. From the amount of messiness on the ground already, this was the second run for these ships. Maybe the third.
How many divisions of troops would Aquitaine bring?
Fraser wanted to go back to sleep. Back to dream. Back to Jeannine. She had nicer things to say, then.
Unlike now.
My love, there will be bad men coming soon.
He already knew that. Imperial Security weren’t the kinds of men that would meekly surrender in the face of a planetary invasion. They would do the same thing that Fraser’s and the other troops had done.
Fade into the bush and mount guerilla operations.
The chessboard had just gotten very, very complicated.
Chapter XIX
Date of the Republic May 3, 396 Designation Lima–Three, Thuringwell
It dinna smell right. That were the problem today.
Sure, fresh–turned dirt and ripped up sod and stuffs, but no choking fumes of diesel’n’things having over it all.
Moirrey could smell wilderness over her shoulder.
It weren’t right.
Still, Digger’s teams were using big monster machines that didn’t require liquid fuel at regular intervals, unlike the rest of this daffy planet.
She had a lovely view o’th’field from the big, prefab watch–tower thingee they had built first, over on one side of what would be a whole new starport in a couple o’days.
And it would be big. Them freighters the Impi’s was using were likes ta be three kilometers long and half that wide. Granted, never more than one of them on the ground at a time, but that were the old days. Today, the field was being leveled smoother’n a baby’s bottom fer four of the big beasties to be serviced at once.
If yer gonna do it, overdo’s it the first time.
Off to her right, three of the construction Ala’s big DropShips were settled, like great, big hyena’s in a row, or monkeys seeing no evil, speaking no evil, nor hearing none.
Two days on the ground, and they was already unloading the first railroad engine that were gonna revolutionize this place som’tin’ fierce. Big stonking cranes had grabbed both sides like hands and lifted her up and rolled her out on a long arm. Crews was busy linin’ up her wheels with the first length of rails they’s puts down on the fresh–leveled ground.
Revolutions might be happening two hundred kilometers away in the capital city, but she were sitting atop one right here, right now. A nasty, bucking bronco patiently standing in the stall waiting his turn to gets all silly.
And he were gonna.
Saana’s voice echoed up the open, metal stairwell.
“Moirrey,” she hollered, sounding like a mom calling the chitlins to dinner. “Digger’s headed this way and wanted to make sure you were ready.”
Moirrey smiled benevolently out over the field. Her job were to keep Digger on track and run interference back fleet–side fer him. He was the one that were gonna build a new starport out here in the boonies, right next to a huge rail yard three times the size this planet needed.
Needed today.
And right next to a huge valley with a lovely river and dirt so’s fertile you could toss seeds out the window of yer flitter and harvest more food than you knowed what to do with tomorrow.
Them bankers in Yonin might’a had a snake’s grip on folks yesterday, but today, things were gonna be a might more interstin’.
“Boss?” Saana mommed at her.
“Coming.”
Moirrey grabbed a jacket and a weapon belt off the hook as she stood.
Middle’o’nowheres they might be. Lady Keller’d left her with very strict instructions about being armed at all times when she were on the ground. She checked the pistol, confirmed it were loaded, clean, and safety on as she settled it around her snake hips.
And if the cute, little, tooled–leather belt holding the holster weren’t fleet issue, t’weren’t her problem, now, were it? After all, Quartermaster just dinna grasp the fundamental importance of glitter. Certainly not the recommended daily allowance thereof, no sir.
Downstairs, Moirrey presented herself to Saana’s critical mom eye like a daughter going out on a first date. Ground boots warm and polished. Warm, baggy pants with oodles of pockets and loops and things. About five layers of shirt between skin and wind, including a hood she could pull up if’n the big, bad wolf came a–huffin’. Messenger bag fer stuff, stuffed with stuff, including lunch.
And the glitter gun, a’course. ’Cause you never knew when you’d need a glitter gun.
Outside, a pair of medium–sized AirShips, big, flying, radio trucks, were just landing. Digger’n the boys and girls were off fer a morning of field work.
After all, something that might be flat as snooker table on paper might be all marsh and crap once ya sunk hip deep in it without realizin’.
Ground transports would make more sense later, once people actually had ta walk the ground, but today they could stay low and fly over the plains on pretty, quiet repellors.
Both trucks were identical. Grasshopper–class combat transports. Just the sort of thing fer a morning jaunt on a maybe–hostile planet.
Three meters wide, eight long. Crew of three with a pilot, navigator, and the girl standing up inside the twin–bore autocannon turret. Big radio truck back end, almost an RV but not as posh and way more armoured. Big table in the middle with jumpseats down both sides that could flip up fer hammocks if need be.
Moirrey waited for a back hatch to open and Digger to stick his head out and wave at her before she crossed the fresh–mowed grass.
Inside were Digger and his Two, Centurion Musial, a broad, strong man barely half a head taller than her. He still felt like he massed her at least three times over, even though it were probably only twice. And she weren’t that skinny. Not waify like Nina Vanek, up on Auberon, a thistle fearing a strong breeze. Nope, just short.
The other three were folks she dinna know, but they had that armed–to–the–teeth thing going that reminded her of Vo Arlo, so she
knowed whats they was about, if nothing else.
“Ready?” Digger asked with a grin.
“A–yup,” she replied, settling into a jumpseat on the left side with the best view of the big screen on the front bulkhead. This being Digger and his folks, she took a moment to strap herself in. Not her day to bounce all over the inside of the place if they decided to maneuver all sudden–like.
But the pilot weren’t nearly as crazy as Gaucho. Almost sedate–like. Friendly, even. Of course, Moirrey knowed all about gift horses full o’Greeks. She kept her belt tight.
“What’s first?” she asked the two men in charge.
Not that Musial would talk much. He were even worse than Digger about always wanting to be face down inside a machine tinkering.
Digger smiled at her from his seat across the table.
“There’s a river we’ll need to bridge,” Digger replied, pulling out a topo map from an overhead compartment and laying it flat on the table. “Plus a few spots we’ll need to think about tunneling. We’ve got materials to bore up to three kilometers of tunnel right now.”
“Digger,” Moirrey retorted. “If we have to tunnel that much, we picked the wrong spot to put the starport.”
“I know,” he sighed. “But we’ve got the John Henry all set up and ready to go. Be a shame not to use it.”
Moirrey suppressed the giggle before it could escape. Big boys. Big toys.
“You can always put a subway under the port, ya know,” she said.
And that were exactly the wrong thing ta tell these two. She knew it as soon as they looked at each other and their eyes got all glittery–excited–like.
It were like standing under a tree as the lightning storm crept closer.
Digger had a dangerous smile on his face. Musial had gotten positively reckless. Fer him.
Not good. Bring them back to the table afore they gots silly.
“So what about the first bridge?” she said sternly.
“Huh?”
“The bridge ya needs ta build me, Digger.”
“Oh, right.”
At least some of the air liked ta bled off the two men at that point.
“We’ll need to span at least sixty meters, possibly ninety,” he said, shifting back into technician mode and out of mad–scientist. At least fer now.
Seriously? It were gonna be herding goldfish with these two, weren’t it?
Chapter XXI
Imperial Founding: 174/05/06. Backcountry, Thuringwell
It hadn’t been necessary to maintain absolute silence, but everyone pretty much had done so anyway. After all, the bad guys were on the far slope, across the valley, more than three kilometers away. And they would be just as interested in remaining hidden over there as his folks were over here.
Still, Fraser didn’t have to tell his people not to move around, not to make noise, not to point any glass optics at the Imperial platoon over there. Being outnumbered was only part of it.
Fraser had eight men and three women with him today on this patrol sweep. Twelve of them. At least there were weapons for everyone, even if it amounted to two shotguns, six rifles, and four pulseguns. Not enough to keep them alive if they got into a tussle with the men in gray across the way. Not twenty–four Imperial Security troops.
He knew who they were, even from this distance. They might have encoded radios, but they were still on Imperial frequencies making squelch and noise. And they were on foot.
That had been the biggest surprise over the last week.
Fraser had been expecting low–flying repulser armor, or wheeled scouts. He hadn’t believed the first reports until he had seen for himself that Aquitaine had horsemen here.
It was insane. It was archaic.
It was genius.
Horses could move across country much faster than either his team or those Imperials across the way. And much quieter. Any aircraft were at significant risk in terrain this heavy. Somebody getting low enough to see anything was in range of energy weapons and shoulder–launched missiles.
Someone had given a lot of thought to this planet before landing. That did not bode well.
More food for thought.
It had been an hour now since he had first spotted the Imperials, before his force was seen. An hour of sitting in a thorn bush thinking green thoughts.
The last Imperial stragglers had finally vanished around the lee of a hill and out of sight. It was a serious, armed force over there, much more heavily armed than his own, if those backpacks were any sign.
Fraser had been willing to risk a quick scan with the glasses, buried deep in the shadows of a dead tree and hiding pretty much under a giant bramble of blackberries. It was too early for berries, but late enough for leaves to give them cover.
Conrad wriggled close enough to talk in a normal voice.
“What do you think, Captain?” he said.
What did he think?
Fraser had heard the radio chatter from Yonin. Nationalization. New starts. Amnesties for the bush men and women willing to turn themselves in and register under Aquitaine law.
He wasn’t sure he believed any of it.
It all fell into the too–good–to–be–true category his mother had always warned him about.
Still, was it worth risking?
“Captain?” Conrad sounded a little concerned. Or maybe grumpy that the old man had fallen asleep on him.
Time to Captain.
“I think that Haussmann’s goons are up to no good,” Fraser finally said.
“Anything we can do about it?” Conrad countered.
“We? No, Conrad. You,” Fraser finally said.
Being Captain meant making hard decisions. It wasn’t enough to keep everyone alive and fed. That was actually pretty easy to do, if they didn’t chase after of the fixings of home. Thuringwell was habitable, temperate, and bountiful enough for humans to survive in the wilderness.
No, this was why they had put him in charge.
“Me?”
“You,” Fraser said sternly.
He turned enough to face his Lieutenant, rather than just talking across the cool, wet, thorns. It was important that he convey to the man the gravity of what was coming next.
“You’ll take Elizabeth with you,” Fraser continued. “Take a rifle and a shotgun and enough food.”
He watched Conrad’s eyes get big, and then clamp down to slits. The man was smart. Probably smart enough.
Fraser waited for a nod of understanding and pointed at the horizon southwest of them, roughly parallel to the track the Imperials were following, but diverging slowly.
“I want the two of you to get well away from here,” Fraser ordered in a deep voice. “When you think you’ve given us enough head start, call Aquitaine and ask for someone to come pick you up.”
“Surrender?” Conrad asked sharply.
“No. You’re there to negotiate. We might be willing to come in. You know where an Imperial strike force was headed. That ought to be enough coin to get their attention.”
“And if they just open fire?” Conrad asked with a cold voice. “Or throw us in a camp to rot?”
“There are risks in warfare, Lieutenant,” Fraser fixed him with an even colder eye. “Part of the weight of command lies in acknowledging it.”
Conrad nodded, deep in thought.
Fraser nodded as well, but more to himself. He stood, wiping leaves and grime off his butt and legs as he slung one of the precious pulseguns over his shoulder. Command was lonely, hard, and miserable. Why had they picked him?
“Everyone,” he called louder. “Gather up. Change in plans.”
Fraser watched the men and women appear from the underbrush like pixies from some fairy tale his grandmother had told him. They carried with them an air of fragility he often found alien. It found no track in his granite soul.
Maybe that was why.
Chapter XXII
Date of the Republic May 7, 396 Yonin, Thuringwell
Smoke.
Barely a taste at the back of Jessica’s mouth.
A hint, hidden under the musk of people, their own funk mostly filling the big meeting hall with the mauve walls. Her marines around the outside wall, contrasting with the rest of the room sharply in their green; heavily armed and scowling professionally at the civilians. Locals sitting in the middle in uncomfortable–looking suits, like a herd of sheep being rounded up by angry, growling dogs.
Jessica looked out over the room and hoped that the smell in the air wasn’t a harbinger of failure.
After all, it had been her orders that caused the bottom third of this building to be subject to the sorts of ravening, destructive fires as had been necessary to cauterize the wound left behind by the crazies. The Imperial Navy were professionals, acting in accordance with long–understood rules of behavior and an understanding that, whenever possible, it was better to live to fight another day, than to throw one’s own life away in futile gestures.
Le Beau Geste. A term that predated starflight, and had stayed with mankind for thousands of years.
No. The Fribourg Empire’s Naval Arm was staffed with professionals. Predictable, reasonable, understandable.
It was Imperial Security that recruited the hard–headed, the crazy, the fanatic.
Hopefully, the men before her today would be reasonable.
Jessica turned her attention back outward.
She was atop a small riser, behind a long, wooden, running desk that wrapped around in a quarter circle in the large room. Once upon a time, the Citizen’s Council of Yonin had met here to hear complaints and make recommendations to the Mayor, who might or might not pass them along to the planetary governor.
That was the limit of democratic trappings to be found on Thuringwell.
Today, it served at least a symbolic purpose.
Jessica sat next to Wakely, with the other three chairs empty.
Again, symbolism.
Before them, down on the level, forty–odd locals, almost all men, save for two women that represented a local secretarial organization and the local prostitution guild.
