by Rick Shelley
"It's over, Colonel. The New Spartans have surrendered. Their commander is being escorted to my CP to make it formal. We've won, Colonel."
Lon's mind needed a few seconds to grasp what Syscy had said, an instant of vertigo that left him hanging onto the ground in front of him.
"Your son is partly responsible for this, Colonel," Syscy continued, oblivious to Lon's momentary difficulty. "While the rest of his company opened a way, Junior led his two platoons through until they were within a hundred yards of the New Spartan headquarters. That's when their colonel surrendered. Junior is leading the escort bringing him to me now."
'Thank you, Ted," Lon said, finally finding his voice. "I'll get everyone notified. Get help to the wounded. Start collecting the weapons and electronics of the New Spartans. You know the routine. Destroy or disable anything they might be able to use against us later. I'll be there to meet the New Spartan commander as quickly as I can. I suspect I'll need at least forty minutes, maybe fifty to reach your position." Lon had signaled for Phip. Jeremy Howell also had moved closer.
"We won?" Howell asked after Lon lifted his faceplate.
"This part of it, at least," Lon said, wiping his face with his sleeve. He was drenched in sweat. "The enemy on the ground has surrendered. I haven't heard anything about their ships, especially about the new fleet coming in. Phip, we've got to get our skates on. The New Spartan commander is being escorted to Ted Syscy's CP. We're going there to accept the formal surrender."
Phip nodded. "Junior?" he asked.
"He's okay." Lon let out a long breath. "Better than okay, I guess. Ted says it was Junior who got through to the enemy headquarters and forced the surrender."
"Jerry, go get everyone ready to move out," Phip said, gesturing to Lon's aide. "We've got a two-mile hike ahead of us, and the sooner we get started, the sooner we get done." He waited until Howell moved away, then stepped closer to Lon. "How about you?" he asked. "You okay?"
A smile tried to climb onto Lon's face but failed. "I will be," Lon said very softly. "I've never been so damned scared in my life." He turned and leaned against the edge of the foxhole, his back to the east, toward the enemy and the bulk of his own troops. "I'm not sure I could have taken much more of it, Phip," he whispered, so softly that he was not sure he could hear his own voice.
"You'd have managed, Lon. You always have."
"I don't think I can risk putting myself through something like this again, Phip. Not…"
"Look, I know what you mean. But, well, once we get home, you'll get over it."
"Maybe," Lon allowed, mostly to avoid continuing the discussion. "Come on, let's get moving. I want to know if it's all over or if we're going to have to go through it again when that new fleet gets here."
The meeting was civil and very reserved. The New Spartan commander introduced himself as Colonel Armond Kaye. Lon guessed that he might be sixty years old. Kaye was about six feet, three inches tall, thin, with washed-out blue eyes and a deeply tanned complexion. He had a field dressing around his left biceps, with a little blood that had seeped through showing. "Nothing, a scratch," Kaye said when Lon inquired about the wound and whether Kaye needed the attention of a medtech.
"It is a difficult thing to do, this," Kaye said. "I thought we could do the job, either alone or by holding out until our reinforcements could arrive." A shrug. "Events proved otherwise, Colonel Nolan. I compliment you." They were sitting on folding chairs, and Lon wasn't quite certain where they had come from. Jeremy Howell had found them somewhere, and made sure they made it to the site of the meeting.
"About those reinforcements, Colonel Kaye," Lon said. "That is something we do need to discuss."
"As mission commander, my surrender is binding on all New Spartan forces participating in the mission, including those now on their way. As soon as you permit, I will transmit orders to the incoming fleet to avoid engaging, or whatever you require."
Lon looked over Kaye's head. Junior was standing about twenty feet away, his rifle at his side, looking as if he expected the enemy commander to stage some sort of nasty surprise, even though Colonel Kaye had been relieved of his weapon and electronic devices. His words could carry no farther than he could shout.
"We would want all fighting ships to bear away from Elysium, Colonel," Lon said, bringing his attention back to his opposite number. "And we will discuss arrangements for bringing your transports in to pick up your soldiers—with suitable precautions, you understand."
"Of course, Colonel," Kaye said, nodding.
"Now, if you require assistance with your wounded…?"
The rest was details. And waiting to make certain that the commander of the incoming New Spartan reinforcements would abide by Colonel Kaye's pledge.
EPILOGUE
After discussion with the president and chancellor, Lon approved an amendment to the contract. Seventh and 15th Regiments would be relieved, go home, and the regiment on its way to reinforce them would complete the six-month contract—surety against a New Spartan decision to come back, or another effort by the Confederation of Human Worlds to force Elysium into its fold.
It was the twelfth of April when 7th and 15th Regiments returned to Dirigent. The dead, those whose bodies had been recovered, were the first to land, their shuttles carrying them directly to the port within the confines of the Corps' main base. The living landed at the civilian spaceport and made their usual parade through Dirigent City. Casualties had been high, primarily because of the shuttles that had been shot down before they could land their troops, but the contract had been successfully fulfilled. Of the 974 Dirigenters who had died on the Elysian contract, 605 had died in the shuttles.
Colonel Robert Hayley retired from the Corps for medical reasons—the unbridgeable gaps in his memory. Fal Jensen was promoted and given command of 15th Regiment.
New recruits were brought into the two regiments from the training battalion. A few score men, mostly commissioned or noncommissioned officers, were transferred from other units. It would take nine months to bring 7th and 15th Regiments back to full strength.
The Corps went on. It always went on.
• • •
On the last day of July 2830, Sara Nolan gave birth to identical twin daughters, Amanda and Ariel, without difficulty. All four grandparents were on hand to help Lon through the birth and the first days at home of his new children.
Elysium proved to be the last combat contract that Lon Nolan, Senior, would participate in. Twenty-three months after his return, he was—to his great surprise—elected General. The vote was thirteen to one. His had been the only dissenting vote. Three days after the end of his year in office, Lon retired from the Corps—to the surprise of his peers on the Council of Regiments and many of his own officers and men. Phip Steesen retired the same day.
Lon, Junior, waited six weeks before resigning his commission. He had served on only one combat contract after Elysium. Two months after he left the Corps, Junior left Diligent to attend the university on Elysium—a week after his sister Angie married… a civilian with no intention of ever becoming a soldier.
That was not, however, the end of the Nolan family's connection to the Diligent Mercenary Corps. Even after Lon and Sara moved to Bascombe East with the twins and gradually took over running the Winking Eye, Lon went off on a couple of diplomatic missions, including one to Buckingham, the capital of the Second Commonwealth, that lasted nearly six months. He also continued to serve as an adviser to the Council of Regiments.
In the next six generations, twenty-seven descendants of Lon and Sara Nolan served in the Corps, and three of them became General—one great-grandson serving three terms. And, more than three thousand years later—long after the Diligent Mercenary Corps, the Second Commonwealth, and the Confederation of Human Worlds had all passed into ancient history—a direct descendant of Lon and Sara Nolan commanded the security detachment aboard the Exoprise, a converted asteroid fitted out to be the first ship to try to reach the great galaxy in A
ndromeda, hoping to find, finally, another sentient species in the universe.
Turn the page for an eliciting excerpt from
HOLDING THE LINE
The first hook of Rick Shelley's thrilling new military series
Coming in paperback from Ace Books August 2OO
I needed twenty-three minutes to reach the battalion orderly room on main base. Fritz looked apprehensive as he got up from his desk and moved toward the door to Major Wellman's office.
"He's waiting for you. I'm to usher you right in."
"Level with me, Fritz. What's up?"
Fritz shook his head. "Honest, I don't have any idea." Then he knocked on the old man's door, opened it far enough to stick his head in, and said, "Sergeant Drak is here, Major."
Wellman's "Send him in" was muffled, but didn't sound happy. Fritz swung the door open all the way and gestured me through. He closed the door behind me.
"Sergeant Drak reporting as ordered." I braced to attention and saluted. Since I didn't know what was up, and figured I was in trouble for something, I made it all as crisp and proper as I could, acting like I loved all the routine bullshit.
Major Wellman looked up slowly and returned my salute as if he were trapped in gelatin. Then he stared with his watery blue eyes. Staring was one thing the major was excellent at. He had made it nearly an art form. Wellman looked me up and down, then back up again. There was no steam coming out of his ears, but I didn't need much imagination to picture it. I remained stiffly at attention. Maybe I don't look much like a recruiting poster soldier—I'm too short and stocky for that—but I do know my job; I'm damned good at it, if I do say so myself. I can handle any weapon in the inventory and I can take care of myself without any weapons but those I had when I entered the world.
"At ease, Sergeant," he said after what felt like two or three minutes—but was probably less than thirty seconds. I moved my feet apart and put my hands behind my back.
"I have good news for you, Sergeant," Wellman said. He leaned back so he could stare with less discomfort. "You have volunteered to be part of a new unit, the 1st Combined Regiment."
"Sir?"
Wellman scowled. That was the other thing he was good at. If there were more than those two, I hadn't seen them.
"The Combined General Staff of the Grand Alliance has decided—in its infinite wisdom—to attempt to integrate the armed forces of all the species in the alliance down to the battalion level. And our Chief of Staff has decided that we need to contribute the, ah, most capable soldiers available, especially combat veterans, and most especially decorated heroes." At this point, his scowl got so deep and convoluted I thought he was about to puke. "Personally, I don't see how a soldier deserves a medal for somehow surviving when damned near his entire platoon was killed around him."
"Sir, maybe you'll see how if you ever manage to get in combat yourself. And survive. Sir." Okay, I was way out of line, even though his jibe was a dig at me, but I couldn't stop myself. It wasn't the first time I had sounded off out of turn, and I wouldn't make book on it being the last.
Wellman got to his feet slowly, leaning on his desk with his long, pickpocket fingers until he was nearly all the way up. He didn't have to get ail the way up to be taller than me, but he stretched out to his full six feet four inches—eight inches taller than me. I could see his face go from its usual pasty white to a brilliant crimson. "You've got three hours to report to the flitter port for transportation to West Memphis. You are not to discuss your orders with anyone while in transit. Have fun playing with the lizards and monkeys. Now, get out of here before I have your orders rewritten to send you out as a corporal."
