Authors: S.M. Stirling,David Drake
WHUFF. WHUFF.
Steam billowed out from the driving cylinders at the front of the locomotive.
“Keep it comin’, sir. She’s about ready.” Sinders braced a foot and hauled back on another of the levers. “Damn, they shoulda greased this fresh days ago. Goddam wop maintenance.”
There was a tooth-grating squeal of metal on metal as the driving wheels spun once against the rails, the smell of ozone, a quick shower of sparks. Then the engine lurched forward, slowed, lurched again and gathered speed with a regular
chuff. . . chuff . . .
of escaping steam. Pia grinned at John as he turned for another shovelful of coal; he found himself grinning back.
“Did it, by God,” he said, then rapped his knuckles against the haft of the shovel in propitiation.
Sunlight fell bright across them as they pulled out of the train station; he flipped the firedoor shut and slapped Sinders on the shoulder.
“Halt just before that signal tower and let me down for a moment,” he half-shouted over the noise into the Marines ear. “I’ll switch us onto the mainline.”
The trooper looked dubiously at the complex web of rail. “Sure you . . . yessir.”
John leaped down with the prybar in hand. The gravel crunched under his feet, pungent with tar and ash. A film of it settled across the filthy surface of what had once been dress shoes; he found himself smiling wryly at that. He looked up for an instant and met Pia’s eyes. She was smiling too, and he knew it was at the same jape.
That’s some woman,
he told himself, as he turned and let Center’s glowing map settle over his vision. She recovered fast.
connections are here . . . and here.
Thanks,
he thought absently.
you are welcome.
He drove the steel into the gap between the rails and heaved. After all these years, I’m still not sure if Center has a sense of humor.
Neither am I, if it’s any consolation,
Raj replied.
Chunk.
The points slid into contact. He sprinted down the line a hundred yards and repeated the process, then waved. The locomotive responded with a puff of steam and a screech of steel on steel as Sinders let out the throttle. At his wave, it kept going; he sprinted alongside and grabbed at the bracket, grunted, took two more steps and swung himself up into the crowded cabin.
He looked ahead, southeastward. The track was clear. “Let’s go home,” he said.
“Home,” Pia whispered. She buried her head against John’s chest, and his arm went around her shoulders.
Pia went pale as she slid down from the saddle, biting her lip against the pain. Lola was weeping, but silently, and he was feeling the effects of days of hard riding himself. The marines were in worse condition than John; they were fit men, but they were footsoldiers, not accustomed to spending much time in the saddle.
“See to the horses,” John said, looking upslope to the copse of evergreen oaks.
They were only a hundred miles from the Gut, and the landscape was getting hillier; the deep-soiled plain of the central lowlands was behind them, and they were in a harder, drier land. Thyme and arbutus scented the air as he climbed quickly to the crest of the hill; the other side showed rolling hills, mostly covered in scrub with an occasional olive grove or terraced vineyard or hollow filled with pale barley stubble. Occasional stands of spike grass waved ten meters in the air. The rhizome-spread native plant was almost impossible to eradicate, but individual clumps never expanded beyond pockets where the moisture level and soil minerals were precisely correct. And a dusty gray-white road, winding a couple of thousand yards below them. On it, coming down from the north . . .
John relaxed. That was no Chosen column. A shapeless clot of humanity grouped around half a dozen two-wheeled ox carts, a few men on horseback, mostly civilians on foot, some pulling handcarts heaped with their possessions.
“Refugees,” he said, as Pia and several of the Marines came up. “We can cut—wait.”
He pressed himself flat again and raised his field glasses. There was no need to say more to the others; four weeks struggling south through the dying Empire had been education enough for all of them. The troops pouring over the hills on the other side of the road were ant-tiny, but there was no mistaking the smooth efficiency with which they shook themselves out from column into line. Half were mounted—on mules—the other half trotting on foot beside, holding on to a stirrup iron with one hand.
Chosen mobile-force unit,
Raj said.
You can move fast that way, about a third again as fast as marching infantry.
The Land troops were all dismounting now, mule-holders to the rear, riflemen deploying into extended line. There was a bright blinking ripple as they fixed bayonets. Others were lifting something from panniers on the backs of supply mules, bending over the shapes they lifted down.
machine guns,
Center commented.
“Christ on a crutch,” Smith whispered. “They’re gonna—”
The refugees had finally noticed the Chosen troops. A spray of them began to run eastward off the road about the same time that the Land soldiers opened fire. The machine guns played on the ones running at first; the tiny figures jerked and tumbled and fell. The rest of the refugees milled in place, or threw themselves into the ditches. Two mounted men made it halfway to where John lay, one with a woman sitting on the saddlebow before him. The bullets kicked up dust all around them, sparking on rocks. The single man went down, and his horse rolled across him, kicking. The second horse crumpled more slowly. A group of soldiers loped out toward it, and the male rider stood and fired a pistol.
The long jet of black-powder smoke drifted away. Before it did the man staggered backward; three Land rifles had cracked, and John saw two strike. He dropped limply. The woman tried to run, holding something that slowed her, but the Protégé troopers caught her before she went a dozen strides. She seemed to stumble, then fell forward with a limp finality. There was a small
snap
sound. One of the troopers slammed his bayonet through her back and wrenched it free with a twist; the body jerked and kicked its heels. Another kicked something out of her outstretched hand, picked it up, then flung it away with an irritable gesture. It landed close enough to the ridge for him to see what it was—a pocket derringer, a lady’s toy in gilt steel and ivory.
John turned his head aside, shutting his ears to the screams from the road, and to the whispered curses of Smith and the marines. That showed him Pia’s face. It might have been carved from ivory, and for a moment he knew what she would look like as an old woman—with the face sunk in on the strong bones, one of those black-clad matriarchs he’d met so often at Imperial soirees, and as often thought would do better at running the Empire than their bemedalled spouses.
The Land soldiers kept enough of the refugees alive to help drag the bodies and wrecked vehicles off the roadway. Then they lined them up with the compulsive neatness of the Chosen and a final volley rang out. The column formed up on the gravel as the slow
crack . . . crack
. . . of an officer’s automatic sounded, finishing the wounded. Then they moved off to the Santander party’s left, heading north up the winding road through the dun-colored hills.
John waited, motioning the others down with an extended palm. Five minutes passed, then ten. The sun was hot; sweat dripped from his chin, stinging in a scrape, and dripped dark spots into the dust inches below his face with dull
plop
sounds. Then . . .
“Right,” he muttered.
Two squads of Land soldiers rose from where they’d hidden among the tumbled dead and wagons, fell into line with their rifles over their shoulders and moved off after their comrades at the quickstep.
“Tricky,” Smith said. “What’ll we do now, sir?”
“We go down there,” John said, standing and extending a hand to help Pia up. “Pick up supplies and head south along that road toward Salini just as fast as the horses can stand.”
Pia looked down towards the road and quickly away. Smith hesitated. “Ah, sir . . . if it’s all the same . . .”
“Do it,” John said. Smith shrugged and turned to call out to the others.
No harm in explaining, as long as it isn’t a question of discipline, Raj prompted him.
John nodded; to Raj, but Smith caught the gesture and paused.
“We can move faster on the road,” John said. “Also if we don’t have to stop for food, including oats for the horses. That detachment was clearing the way for a regimental combat team. With our remounts, we can outrun them.”
Smith blinked in thought, then drew himself up. “Yessir,” he said, with a small difficult smile. “Just didn’t like the idea of, well—”
Pia’s hand tightened in John’s. “That was what happens to the weak,” she said unexpectedly. “We’re all going to have to become . . . very strong, Mr. Smith. Very strong, indeed.”
The Santander party moved forward over the crest and down the slope towards the road, leading their horses over the rough uneven surface speckled with thorny bushes. The shod hoofs thumped on dirt, clattered against rocks with an occasional spark. None of the humans spoke. Then Johns head came up.
What’s that noise? he thought.
A thin piping. Pia stopped. “Quiet!” she said.
John put up his hand and the party halted. That made the sound clearer, but it had that odd property some noises did, of seeming to come from all directions.
the sound is
—Center began.
Pia released John’s hand and walked over to the body of the woman who’d shot herself rather than be captured by the Land soldiers. John opened his mouth to call her back, then shut it; Pia had probably—certainly—seen worse than this in the emergency hospital back in Ciano.
The Imperial girl rolled the woman’s body back John could see her pale; the soft-nosed slug from the derringer had gone up under the dead woman’s chin and exited through the bridge of her nose, taking most of the center of her face with it. Not instantly fatal, although it would have been a toss-up whether she bled out from that first or from the bayonet wound through the kidneys.
—an infant,
Center concluded, as Pia picked up a cloth-wrapped bundle from where the woman’s body had concealed it. She knelt and unbound the swaddlings. John came closer, close enough to see that it was a healthy, uninjured boychild of about three months—and reassured enough by the contact to let out an unmistakable wail. Also badly in need of a change; Pia ripped a square from the outer covering and improvised.
“There’s a carrying cradle on the saddle of that horse, I think,” she said, without looking up. “Why doesn’t someone get it for me and save the time?”
Don’t even try, kid,
Raj said at the back of John’s mind.
Nightmare images of himself trying to convince Pia that it was impossible to carry a suckling infant on a forced-march journey through the disintegrating Empire flitted through John’s mind. He smiled wryly, even then.
Besides, he thought, looking down at the road, there’s been enough death here.
“Sinders, do that,” he said aloud. “Let’s get moving. And if there’s a live nanny goat down there, somebody truss it and put it over one of the spare horses.”
CHAPTER TEN
The throng filling the Salini waterfront had the voice of surf on a gravel beach: harsh, sometimes louder or softer, but never silent. A mindless, inhuman snarl.
The bridge of the protected cruiser
McCormick City
was crowded as well. Many of those present were civilians whose only business was to speak with Commodore Maurice Farr, Officer Commanding the First Scouting Squadron. The situation didn’t please Farr. Captain Dundonald, the flagship’s captain, was coldly livid, though openly he’d merely pointed out that the admiral’s bridge and cabin in the aft superstructure would provide the commodore with more space.
Farr sympathized with his subordinate, but “subordinate” was the key word here. He had no intention of removing himself to relative isolation while trying to untangle a mare’s nest like the evacuation of Santander citizens and their dependents from Salini. Farr was sleeping in the captain’s sea cabin off the bridge, forcing Dundonald to set up a cot in the officers’ library on the deck below.
“Commodore Farr,” said Cooley, spokesman for the captains of the five Santander freighters anchored in the jaws of the shallow bay that served Salini for a harbor, “I want you to know that if you don’t help us citizens like your orders say to, you’ll answer to some damned important people! Senator Beemody is a partner in Morgan Trading, and there’s other folk involved who talk just as loud, though they may do it in private.”
Three of the other civilian captains nodded meaningfully, though grizzled old Fitzwilliams had the decency to look embarrassed. Fitz had left the navy after twelve years as a lieutenant who knew he’d never rise higher in peacetime. That was a long time ago, but listening to a civilian threaten a naval officer with political consequences still affected Fitzwilliams in much the way it did Farr himself.
“Thank you, Captain Cooley,” Farr said. “I’ll give your warning all the consideration it deserves. As for the specifics of your request . . .”
He turned to face the shore, drawing the civilians’ attention to the obvious. The Salini waterfront crawled with ragged, desperate people for as far as the eye could see. The
McCormick City
and two civilian ferries hired by the Santander government were tied up at the West Pier. A hundred Santander Marines and armed sailors guarded the pierhead with fixed bayonets.
Behind them, the six staff members of the Santander consulate in Salini sat at tables made from boards laid on trestles. The vice-consuls poured over huge ledgers, trying to match the names of applicants to the register of Santander citizens within the Empire.
The job was next to hopeless. No more than half the citizens visiting the Union had bothered to register. The consulate staff was reduced to making decisions on the basis of gut instinct and how swarthy the applicant looked.
Every human being in Salini—and there must have been thirty thousand of them as refugees poured south as the Shockwave ahead of unstoppable Chosen columns—wanted to board those two ferries. Farr’s guard detachment had used its bayonets already to keep back the crowd. Very soon they would have to fire over the heads of a mob, and even that wouldn’t restrain desperation for long.
“Gentlemen,” Farr said, “the warehouses on Pier Street might as well be on Old Earth for all the chance you’d have of retrieving their contents for your employers. If I landed every man in my squadron, I still couldn’t clear the waterfront for you. And even then what would you do? Wish the merchandise into your holds? There aren’t any stevedores in Salini now. There’s nothing but panic.”
Farr’s guard detachment daubed the forelocks of applicants with paint as they were admitted to the pier. It was the only way in the confusion to prevent refugees from coming through the line again and again, clogging still further an already cumbersome process.
A middle-aged woman with a forehead of superstructure gray leaped atop a table with unexpected agility, then jumped down on the other side despite the attempt of a weary vice-consul to grab her. She sprinted along the pier. Two sailors at the gangway of the nearer ferry stepped out to block her.
With an inarticulate cry, the woman flung herself into the harbor. Oily water spurted. One of the Santander cutters patrolling to intercept swimmers stroked to the spot, but Farr didn’t see her come up again.
“There’s a cool two hundred thousand in tobacco aging in the Pax and Morgan Warehouse,” Cooley said. “Christ knows what all else. Senator Beemody ain’t going to be pleased to hear he waited too long to fetch it over.”
This time he was making an observation, not offering a threat.
Salini’s Long Pier was empty. The two vessels along the East Pier, itself staggeringly rotten, had sunk at their moorings a decade ago.
The wooden-hulled cruiser
Imperatora Giulia Moro
still floated beside the Navy Pier across the harbor, but she was noticeably down by the stern. The
Moro
had put out a week before along with the rest of the Imperial Second Fleet under orders from the Ministry in Ciano. The Second Fleet was a motley assortment. Besides poor maintenance and inadequate crewing levels, all the vessels had in common was their relatively shallow draft. That made operation in the Gut less of a risk than it would have been for heavier ships, since the Imperial Navy’s standard of navigation was no higher than that of its gunnery.
The
Moro
had limped back to her dock six hours later. She hadn’t been out of sight of the harbor before her stern seams had worked so badly that she was in imminent danger of sinking. Now her decks were packed with refugees to whom the illusion of being on shipboard was preferable to waiting on land for Chosen bayonets.
The
Moro
’s crew had vanished in the ship’s boats, headed across the Gut to Dubuk in Santander. Farr couldn’t really blame them. Those men were likely to be the fleet’s only survivors—unless the other vessels had cut and run also.
A steam launch chuffed toward the
McCormick City’s
port quarter, opposite the pier. A Sierra flag hung from the jackstaff. Diplomats? At any rate, another complication on a day that had its share already. For the moment, Captain Dundonald’s crew could deal with the matter.
The remaining civilian present on the bridge was the one Farr had sent armed guards to summon: Henry Cargill, Santander’s consul in Salmi and the official whose operations Farr was tasked to support. Turning from the bridge railing—brass at a high polish, warmly comforting in the midst of such chaos—Farr fixed his glare on the haggard-looking consul.
“Mr. Cargill,” Farr said, “if we don’t evacuate this port shortly there will be a riot followed by a massacre. I have no desire to shoot unfortunate Imperial citizens, and I have even less desire to watch those citizens trample naval personnel. When can we be out of here?”
“I don’t know,” the consul said. He shook his head, then repeated angrily, “I’m damned if I know, Commodore, but I know it’ll be sooner if you let me get back to the tables. I’m supposed to be spelling Hoxley now—for an hour. Which is all the sleep he’ll get till midnight tomorrow!”
Cargill waved at the waterfront. The refugees stood as dynamically motionless as water behind a dam—and as ready to roar through if a crack appeared in the line of Santander personnel.
“They’re coming from the north faster than we can process the ones already here,” he continued. “Formally, I have orders to aid the return of Santander citizens to the Republic.
Off
the record, I have an expression of the governments deep concern lest large numbers of penniless refugees flood Santander.”
A party of armed men had pushed their way through the crowd to the pierhead. Farr tensed for a confrontation, then relaxed as the guard detachment passed the new arrivals without even painting their foreheads. There were women among them, and unless the distance was tricking Farr’s eyes, some of the men wore portions of Santander Marine
dress
uniforms.
Cargill bitterly quoted, “The Ministry trusts you will use your judgment to prevent a situation that might tend to embarrass the government and draw the Republic into quarrels that are none of our proper affair.’ The courier who brought that destroyed the note in front of me after I’d read it, but I’m sure the minister remembers what he wrote. And the president does, too, I shouldn’t wonder!”
Farr looked at the consul with a flush of sympathy he hadn’t expected to feel for the man who was delaying the squadron’s departure. Consular officials weren’t the only people who were expected to carry the can for their superiors in event an action had negative political repercussions. “I see,” he said. “I appreciate your candor, sir. I’ll leave you to get back to your—”
Ensign Tillingast, the
McCormick City’s
deck officer, stepped onto the bridge with a look of agitation. Behind him were a pair of armed marines and a bareheaded civilian wearing an oilskin slicker.
Tillingast looked from Farr to Captain Dundonald, who curtly nodded him back to the commodore. Farr commanded the squadron, but he
didn’t
directly control the crew of the flagship. He tried to be scrupulous in going through Dundonald when he gave orders, but the natural instinct of the men themselves was to deal directly with the highest authority present in a crisis.
“Sir, he came on the launch,” Tillingast said, “I thought I should bring him right up.”
The stranger took off his slicker and folded it neatly over his left forearm. Under it he wore the black-and-silver dress uniform of a lieutenant in the Land military service, with the navy’s dark blue collar flashes and fourragére dangling from his right epaulet. To complete his transformation he donned the saucer hat he’d carried beneath the raingear.
“I am not of course a spy,” the Land officer said with a crisp smile to his surprised audience. He was a small, fair man, and as hard as a marble statue. “The ruse was necessary as we could not be sure the animals out there—”
He gestured toward the crawling waterfront.
“—would recognize a flag of truce.”
Drawing himself to attention, he continued, “Commodore Farr, I am
Leutnant der See
Helmut Weiss, flag lieutenant to
Unterkapttan der See
Elise Eberdorf, commander of the Third Cruiser Squadron.”
He saluted. Farr returned the salute, feeling his soul return to the stony chill that had gripped it every day of his duty as military attaché in the Land.
“I am directed to convey
Unterkapttan
Eberdorf’s compliments,” Weiss said, “and to inform you that she is allowing one hour for neutral shipping to leave the port of Salmi before we attack.”
“I see,” Farr said without inflection.
The ships of Farr’s squadron were almost as heterogeneous a group as the Imperial Second Fleet. The
McCormick City
was a lovely vessel—6,000 tons, twenty knots, and only five years old. She mounted eight-inch guns in twin turrets fore and aft, with a secondary battery of five-inch quick-firers in ten individual sponsons on the superstructure. The
Randall
was five years older, slower, and carried her four single eight-inch guns behind thin gunshields at bow and stern. Farr was of the school that believed armor which wasn’t at least three inches thick only served to detonate shells that might otherwise have passed through doing only minor damage.
At least the
Randall’s
secondary battery had been replaced with five-inch quick-firers during the past year. Guns that used bagged charges instead of metallic cartridges loaded too slowly to fend off torpedo attack.
The
Lumberton
was older yet, with short-barrelled eight-inch guns and a secondary battery of six-inch slow-firers that had been next to useless when they were designed—at about the time Farr was a midshipman. Last and least, the
Waccachee Township
wore iron armor over a wooden hull much like the poor
Imperatora Giulia Moro
across the harbor. She’d never in her career been able to make thirteen knots.
“Attack what?” Captain Dundonald said. “Good God, man! Does this look like a military installation to you?”
Lieutenant Weiss chuckled. “Yes, well,” he said. “You must understand, gentlemen, that though it will doubtless take a year or two to reduce the animals to a condition of proper docility, we must first close the cage door. Besides, the squadron needs target practice. We were escorting the transports at Corona.”
He eyed the
Moro.
The brightly clad refugees gave the impression that the ship was dressed in bunting for a gala naval review of the sort the Empire had so dearly loved. “From what those who were present at Corona say, the Imperial main fleet wasn’t much more of a danger than that hulk will be.”
Farr tried to blank his mind. The image of shells slamming home among the mass of humanity on the
Moro
was too clear; it would show on his face. And if he spoke, something unprofessional would come out of his mouth.
“Commodore—” said a breathless Ensign Tillingast, bursting onto the bridge again.
“Ensign!” Farr shouted. “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing, breaking in on—”
“Your son, sir,” Tillingast said.
“Jeffrey?” Farr blurted. He wished he could have the word back as it came out, even before John Hosten stepped through the companionway hatch.
John was limping slightly. He’d lost twenty pounds since Farr last saw him; and, Farr thought, the boy had lost his innocence as well.
“Sir, I’m sorry,” John said. “I became separated from Jeffrey in Ciano. He was in Corona when—”
John appeared to be choosing his words with as much care as fatigue and sleeplessness allowed him. Farr had seen his son’s eyes flick without lighting across Weiss’ uniform.
“When we last spoke,” John resumed, “Jeffrey intended to present himself to a Chosen command group. He felt association with Land forces was of more benefit to his professional development and that of the Republic’s army than remaining with the Imperials would be.”
Lieutenant Weiss allowed himself a tight smile. Captain Dundonald ostentatiously turned his back.
“I’m confident that so long as my sons live, they’ll do their duty as citizens of the Republic of the Santander,” Farr said, his voice as calm as a wave rising on deep water. “As will their father.”