There is a paradox in the study of individual military merit inasmuch as people generally believe that the fundamental strength of soldiers is derived from the mutual dependence of comradeship and its assurance of being never left to fight alone. This is superficially true, but only in the sense that the strength of mutual dependence is an end product itself. Nothing can be derived from mutual support among a group of nothings. The man in a unit who has nothing within himself of any positive value is at best a vacant file. Unit strength is built of individual strength in positive quantities, however small. The approbation of his companions in arms is the greatest reward of a soldier's life. He never wins it by relying wholly on the efforts of others to assure his survival. In battle, when a man is not acting by reflex and retains a moment for introspection, the sensation of aloneness is most vivid. It is not to right or left or backward that he looks for strength of survival, but within himself. He is lost if there is nothing there of substance.
—Joseph Maxwell Cameron,
The Anatomy of Military Merit
"Urgent signal, sir," Andy Lahr said. "Captain Catherine Alana."
"Is this circuit secure?"
"Yes, sir, direct line of sight systems, the Palace to Plataia. I mean, with Murasaki I suppose we can't be sure about anything, but I'd bet on it."
"It will have to do. OK, Andy, put her on screen."
Catherine was in battle dress, armor and leather, her hair hidden under a combat helmet. "New intelligence report," she said. "Cornet Talkins has reported in. We've arranged a pickup, but I prefer to send her to the Palace. The CoDominium might or might not let her in here, but it wouldn't be much of a favor to put her in the middle of a battle after all she's been through. They were pretty rough on her. Anyway, I told her to ask for you, code Jehosophat."
"All right, I'll arrange to have her brought in. We can send her over to St. Thomas Hospital. Any reason I should talk to her myself? Andy Bielskis is here."
"She knows where Skilly is."
"Jesus. Tell me, quick."
"Unfortunately, it's where Skilly was. A farmhouse up near Corinth. Worth raiding, but you won't get anyone important. Talkins didn't exactly escape, General, she was rescued."
"By whom?"
"Sir, you're not going to like this. By Geoffrey Niles. He's with her, and will be at the Palace shortly."
"Niles. Under some kind of amnesty?"
"Safe conduct," Catherine said. "We didn't have much time, the Helots are looking for them, and so it was kind of a package deal, I had to bring in both."
"I'll do what I can. That Stora business really got to Prince Lysander. If we can show Niles had any connection to that, Lysander will hang him and there won't be a thing I can do about it. Or want to do about it for that matter."
"Yes, sir. Anyway, I told Niles he could walk out with a reasonable head start. General, he did rescue Margreta Talkins."
"Yeah. All right, I said I'll do what I can."
"There's more. The reason Skilly isn't at the farmhouse is that she's in Sparta City, Minetown to be exact, organizing the Helot revolt to take over when the CoDominium Marines kill off the government of Sparta. When the Marines march on us, she'll start a general uprising."
"How truly good," Owensford said. "I have to face the 77th Line Marines with all my forces up north, nothing here but secondary militia, and I get to deploy for a general uprising as well. Actually, I expected it. Nice to see that effort wasn't wasted. Any idea of just what strength she's got?"
"No, sir, and I don't think she knows either. The Ultimate Decree caught them off guard, and a lot of their politicals have deserted the cause now that it's dangerous. Of course if she looks like winning they'll be back. General, that's not the worst of it."
"Captain, just what can be worse?"
"Murasaki. He's got an atom bomb."
"Oh, boy. Do we know what he plans to do with it?"
"No, sir. Niles may know more about that. He was being cagey, holding back some information to bargain with. Of course he maybe wrong, but I'd bet a lot that he believes he's not wrong, that Murasaki has a bomb and Skilly has worked out a way to use it to her advantage. Maybe you can find out more when he gets there."
"I'll try. Wish I had you here."
"Use Andy. He's better than me, almost as good as Jesus," Catherine said. "OK, sir, I'll get back to defense organization."
"Yeah. How's morale."
"Not good, but how could it be?"
"Right. Tell them to hang on. Ciotti may want to carry out his orders, but he doesn't want his bright and shiny regiment all bloodied either. I'm hoping that when he realizes he has a real fight he'll reconsider."
"Yes, sir. Well, I'd best get to work. Alana out." Catherine didn't sound as if she believed that Ciotti would reconsider, which was all right, because Owensford didn't really believe it either.
The gates of the CoDominium compound swung open. Almost silently, two Suslov tanks flowed out, sensors scanning as their turrets swung the 135mm autocannon back and forth. The scouts had gone over the wall earlier; infantry followed the armor, deploying into open formations.
Lysander felt his palms sweat as he watched through the pickup from the lead tank. God I wish I was there. Like hell I do.
The plan was to keep the CD Marines in the urban areas, prevent their full deployment. Try to keep them from winning quickly. Every hour's delay was another chance Lermontov would send countermanding orders. Or something. Hell, the horse may learn to sing.
The tanks moved forward. God, I'm glad I'm not there. Those were better machines than his men had, and crewed by soldiers everyone called the best in the human universe.
He had put the Spartan-made armor in the forward positions, holding the Legion's handful of modern tanks and AFVs back to contain penetrations. The first of the Marine tanks was nosing down the avenue leading south, with a screening force of infantry fanned out ahead, shadowy figures darting from one piece of cover to the next.
"Now," he said.
The pickup monitor shuddered, and buried blast charges dropped the fronts of the buildings on either side into the street. A barrier of rubble slid down across the pavement in a cloud of dust and brick that billowed out to obscure the nightvision scope's view. Overhead the freight-train rumble of artillery passed, and seconds later the lead element of the 77th Marines fell under the hammer of airburst shells. Automatic weapons opened up, streams of tracer from well-covered positions further down the street killing or pinning the Marine foot soldiers. The first Suslov accelerated, rising up over the rubble that blocked the street.
The monitor shuddered again, this time as the 76mm gun of the Cataphract opened up, hammering five shells into the thinner belly armor of the medium tank. The flashes were bright; the heavier vehicle slewed around and halted. An instant later it exploded, a muffled whump sound and belches of yellow-orange flame through slits and hatches.
"Got him, got him!" the Cataphract's commander was saying. "We got—" The pickup went blank.
"Switch to secondary," Lysander said.
"Captain Porter here."
"Collins here."
"Highness, the rebels are making their move concurrently with the Marine attack. Power's down except for buildings with auxiliaries." That meant the whole city was dark, no streetlights, probably no water. "City com lines are completely garbled. Heavy jamming on the air. Firing in the streets, and fires, from what sensors I have left. Seems to be centered in Minetown."
Lysander nodded grimly. Every Field Force soldier and militiaman was needed to contain the Marines; so were the Milice. The unorganized reserve of the Brotherhoods would have to contain the Minetowners. That might be difficult; there were sixty thousand new chums in there, many of them hungry, and there had been no time to root out all the rebels.
"The third line will have to handle it," he said. That's all there is, he thought. Ordinary people.
Another light flashed. "Sir! Major Donald here. The Marines are—"
"Where do you think you're going?"
Thomas McTiernan sucked in his gut and managed to fasten the armor; a decade as a tavern and restaurant keeper had left him a good deal heftier than he had been when he last wore the Brotherhood militia equipment. Behind him an open window looked out over a street dark except for the light of a three-quarter Cytheria and the ruddy glow of burning buildings a little further north; the low-rent district was ablaze from end to end. No fire sirens sounded, not since the rebel snipers slaughtered the first response of the amateur fire companies. He could see the flashes from shells exploding near the CoDo enclave, as well, and the staccato echoes of small-arms fire. Both were increasing, and even as he watched Marine artillery opened up from inside the enclave, firing south against the Royal guns dug in near Government House Square.
"Didn't you hear the King?" he said, turning on her. Their bedroom was plain enough; there was a hologram of a serious-looking young man in Royal Army uniform. Another of a younger man; that one had the simple starburst of the Order of Thermopylae laid across it. "I'm going to help stop the rebels, the Marines, get the bastards who hurt Julio—"
Then he took in the hunting clothes on her stout body, the shotgun firmly clutched in her hands.
"Not without me, you aren't, Thomas McTiernan," she said. "And don't say it. All the young, strong, fit ones are off with the Army, like Mike—" they both glanced toward the picture of their son in uniform "—and we're what's left."
He stared at her in silence for a moment, then snorted. "Startin' to remember why I married you, Maria," he said.
The arms case was in the back of the bedroom closet. A Peltast rifle lay there, massive and ugly-handsome and shining with careful maintenance. He threw the bandoleer over his shoulder, then ducked his head through the carrying strap, grunting as he came erect. These mothers are heavy, he thought. One of his knees gave a warning twinge, legacy of an ancient soccer game. Hope I don't have to sprint much.
His daughter was waiting at the head of the stairs, a gangling buck-toothed girl with a mop of carrot-colored hair, just turned thirteen and adding pimples to her mass of freckles. She was wearing the brown cotton-drill uniform of the Royal Spartan Scouts, complete with neckerchief, and carrying the scope-sighted .22 rifle they trained with. Her father opened his mouth, hesitated.
"Just keep your head down and don't do anything damn-fool, understand?" he growled.
"Yes, Papa," she said.
Damn sight more respectful than she usually is, he thought, working his mouth to moisten it. Christ, I wish was twenty again. A young man didn't think he could die. A young man didn't have responsibilities . . . A young man didn't see his son after he'd thrown himself on a grenade in his own home.
They came out into the courtyard that was the patio of the family business, and a shadowy figure leaped back with a cry.
"Jesus, Thom!"
"Ah, Eddie," McTiernan said, recognizing the neighbor who had the appliance-repair shop down at the corner. "Sorry."
They walked out into the street. A crowd was gathering; he recognized most of them, but it was odd to see the same faces you passed the time of day with milling around with guns in their hands.
"Thom, we're putting up a barricade at the end of the street. Mind if we use your van?"
He winced—that was three years scrimping and saving—then nodded and threw the man the keys.
"Hey, sprout, get your bike," a younger voice said. "Mr. Kennedy says we gotta be couriers to the other parts of the neighborhood."
His daughter gave him a brief kiss on the cheek and dashed away; Maria McTiernan came back out of the door, her shotgun slung muzzle-down along her back and two large hampers in her hand.
"Sandwiches," she said, to his unspoken question. "They'll need sandwiches at the barricade."
"Eddie," he said, struck with a thought. He hoisted the Peltast rifle up with the butt resting on one hip.
"Yeah?"
"Get me a couple of people, will you?" He pointed to the library at the end of the street with his free hand; it was a neo-Californian period piece, with a square four-story tower at one corner. "With someone to watch my back, I could do a lot of good from up there with this jackhammer."
"Yeah! Hey, Forchsen, Mrs. Brust, c'mon over here!"
Somebody pedaled up, breathless, shouted in a voice just beginning to break.
"Hey, I'm from Jefferson Street! My Dad sent me to tell you the Minetowners are coming right up Paine Avenue, must be thousands of them, molotovs and guns and all, they've got some trucks covered with boilerplate, too. Coming through where the Marines blew down the buildings."
A growl ran through the householders, mechanics, storekeepers, clerks. The crowd flowed toward the barricade, into firing positions in upper floors; McTiernan heard window-glass being hammered out with rifle butts as he lumbered wheezing toward the library, gasping thanks as Mrs. Brust the schoolteacher came up to take some of the weight off his shoulder. Her machinepistol clanked against him with every stride, to a mutter of "sorry, sorry."
On Burke Avenue, on scores of others like it, the Battle of Sparta City had begun.
"Report, Group Leader Derex?" Kenjiro Murasaki said, indicating the map table. The commander of the Helot regulars infiltrated into Sparta City looked exhausted, his armor dark with grime and smoke.
"Not so good, sir," he said. "Here." The map showed Minetown as a solid splotch of Movement red with long tangled pseudopods reaching out across the city; there was another, smaller block on the other side of the Sacred way, and a scattering like measles almost to Government House Square. From the CoDominium enclave a single broad straight arrow drove south, overlapping the Movement forces.
"Trouble is, them Minetowners ain't gettin' out as much as we'd like," the Helot said regretfully. "Well, not surprisin'. Handing 'em guns don't make them fuckers soldiers, sir. Too many barricades and Cits with guns. Not milishy—the milishy fightin' the Marines—just Cits, but they kin shoot. Nearly got me, b'God; snipers thicker'n dogshit out there. Peltast rifles, too, them armored cars ain't worth jack shit against them fuckers." A look of grudging respect made the Helot's face longer than ever.
"Well, anyways, when the Minetowners do git out, 'n overrun places with Cits in 'em, they just stops to loot, rape and burn and drink anythin' they kin find, transmission fluid included. Then the Milice flyin' squads hits and drives 'em back. Our own fires is getting so outa hand they're blockin' us too. Too many of em round the edges of Minetown."
"Flying squads?" Murasaki said thoughtfully "How do they coordinate, without communications?" Much of the Royal Army equipment was still functioning, but the ordinary city facilities were frozen.
The Helot officer brayed laughter. Murasaki frowned, and it sobered the tall man down to a grin.
"They ain't using the com, sir. They's usin' Evil Scuts."
"Eagle Scouts?" the Meijian said, baffled.
"Little motherfuckers're on rooftops and in attic winders all over town, anywhere Cits live, blinkin' at each other with flashlights. Morse code." This time the admiration was ungrudged. "Runnin' messages by bicycle, too."
"Dispose of them."
"How, sir? I ain't got but the one Group, seven hundred countin' every booger and ass-wipe. Y' Movement gunmen will have to do it."
Murasaki nodded thoughtfully. Surprising, he thought. Analysis had indicated the blockade and CoDominium intervention would frighten the populace into sitting this out.
"Recommendations?"
"Sure, sir. Them Minetowners don't have the discipline to overrun even weak forces, but they got more'n enough numbers and firepower, with what we handed out. Your cell-leaders—" he jerked a thumb at the men and women behind him, in civilian clothes but armed and wearing = sign armbands "— keep tryin' to lead from the front. Like tryin' to stiffen up a pitcher of spit with a handful of buckshot, just wastin' men who're willing to fight. Put automatic weapons teams behind the crowds. Fire on anyone who retreats. Set the fires in the center of Minetown, big ones. They'll charge the barricades if you get them too crazy-scared of what's behind them to stop."
The technoninja nodded.
"Do it. Now. Also, detach two companies for the Endlosung attack on Fort Plataia."
The Helot hesitated. "Sir—"
"It is essential."
Orders crackled out.
"Glad to see you, Cornet Talkins," Owensford said. "Highness, I present Cornet Margreta Talkins. She holds commissions in both the Legion and the Royal Intelligence Corps. Talkins, Crown Prince Lysander."
"I'm proud to meet you, Highness," Margreta said. She looked down at her ill fitting clothing with embarrassment. "They didn't tell me I was to meet you—"
Lysander took her hand and kissed her fingers. "I'm very pleased to meet you. We'll repeat the introduction at a more pleasant event," Lysander said. He turned to her companion. "I can't say I'm pleased to see you, Niles. Frankly, I'd rather talk to a snake."
"I wish I could resent that," Geoffrey Niles said. "But unfortunately I understand all too well."
"Were you at Stora?" Lysander demanded.
"At Stora, yes, Highness. But I had nothing to do with the attack on the Armory. I would have prevented it if I could."
"You knew it was to take place?"
"I knew we had an earth penetrator missile. I did not know its target until less than five minutes before the launch. I protested the targeting, and was told that if I continued to protest I would be shot. I did not order that target, nor did I pass along any orders concerning that missile."
"Sergeant Bielskis?" Owensford asked.
"No hesitations, and no doubts," Andy Bielskis said. "If he's faking that, he's the best I ever saw. I'd say genuine, sir."
"If you like I'll submit to any questioning technique you want to employ," Niles said. "The only violation of the Laws of War that I have been involved in or condoned was the gas attack in the Dales, and that was against military targets only. There weren't even any civilians in the area."
"All right, we'll hold that one in abeyance," Owensford said. "Cornet, what was promised to Mr. Niles?"
"Free passage out if he didn't talk us into a better deal, and a reasonable head start before pursuit."
"Talkins, you sound exhausted. I suppose it's best you're here as long as we're talking to Grand Senator Bronson's nephew, but as soon as we're done I want you to go check into St. Thomas's," Owensford said.
"Thanks, sir, but I reckon I can still fight."
"There's no need," Lysander said.
"Every need," Margreta said. "Highness, I intend to accept Citizenship just as soon as I'm discharged. This is my home, and I'll sure feel better when we've got these scum cleaned out of it." She touched her bruised cheeks and black eye. "And I reckon I have some personal reasons, too."
"Well, I can't argue that," Owensford said. "All right, Niles, you hinted that you want a better deal than a safe conduct out of here. What do you want and what will you trade?"
"What I want is a free pardon," Niles said.
"Not a ticket off-planet?"
"If I have to take that I'll do it, but I'd rather earn the right to stay here," Geoff said. "Stay here, help rebuild. Help undo some of the damage I've caused." He looked significantly at Margreta. "Marry, work for Citizenship."
"Why this change of heart?"
"It would take a long time to explain, and we don't have a long time," Geoff said. "You learn a lot about a society from fighting it. And about its leaders. And what I learned was to admire you people."
"And what do you have to bargain with?" Owensford demanded.
"Information. I'll give it all to you, and you determine what it's worth. I'll accept your valuation."
Lysander look coldly at him for a while. "All right. Spill it."
Geoff told them of the conversation he had heard between Skilly and Murasaki. "I didn't actually hear the word 'nuke,'" he said, "but I can't think what else it could be. Murasaki has one, but only one, nuclear weapon, and he intends to deploy it either to destroy the Palace, or Legion Headquarters at Fort Plataia. If it was left to Skilly it would be the Palace, but my guess is that Murasaki prefers Plataia."
"But you don't know it's a nuke," Lysander said, "and in any event you don't know where it is. Where it is now, or where it is going to be. Who would know?"
"Skilly, and Murasaki," Geoff said. "And maybe not Skilly. Murasaki is crazy. Apparently Grand Uncle gave him the assignment of undermining Sparta, and the secondary but almost equally important goal of punishing Falkenberg's Legion."
"Sounds a bit odd," Owensford said. "The Legion's on New Washington. We're just some odd bits and pieces."
"Including the families," Niles said. "Murasaki would delight in the anguish it would cause Falkenberg and his people on New Washington if they heard their families were killed. Or captured by Bronson people."
"That must take real hate," Owensford said. "Is Bronson that crazy?"
Niles shook his head slowly. "General, I don't know. I used to think he was crazy like a fox. That's still the way to bet it."
"All right," Lysander said. "General, your evaluation? Is his information worth what he asks?"
"It's close. Talkins, have you a recommendation regarding this man?" Owensford said.
"He saved my life," she said. "And he—was very much a gentleman."
"Well, you have a large favor coming from the Crown," Lysander said.
"Oh. Well, if it's large enough to cover his pardon, I'll ask for it," Margreta said.
Lysander nodded. "So be it. Geoffrey Niles, you have a free pardon for all acts committed since you arrived on Sparta to this moment. Cornet Talkins, you've still got a favor coming, you didn't use more than half your credit on this."
"So," Owensford said. "Sergeant, take Mr. Niles to a conference room and see if he remembers anything else worth knowing. Particularly clues about where this Gotterdammerung is going to go off."
Lysander stood. "I don't suppose I can be much help with that. Cornet Talkins, please go to St. Thomas's. It won't be any picnic. I'm afraid the hospital is going to end up as part of the defense system."
"The next push with their armor may get through," Lysander said bluntly, to the officers grouped around them. "We're sopping up their infantry, us and the Citizens, but we've got to get more antitank teams out there—"
It had been only five hours since the attack began. Five hours. God. He could hear his own words as he briefed his men, but somewhere beneath it was running a stream of memory, smashed buildings and men gaping in death around burning iron. Only five hours and we're already back to Government House Square. The St. Thomas Hospital had been the only building suitable for a redoubt.
"Sir, rebels, they're in the main ventilation shafts on level four!"
Lysander jerked his head up from the map. "Bloody hell! Come on—not you, just the riflemen."
The machine gunner at the window nodded, tapping off another expert short burst at the shadowy figures darting between the burning cars in the lot below. God Damn. The CoDo Marines were not cooperating with the Helots deliberately, but the effect could be the same.
Lysander led the way out of the orderly room they had taken over as tactical HQ at a pounding run. Wounded men and the sick evacuated from the lower levels looked up at him as he passed, slalomed off the wall at the axial corridor with the rifle squad at his heels. This was level four; his redoubt. And Melissa's room was quite close to where the main airshaft branched off from the service core.
"There!" he shouted.
There was movement behind the grillwork screen, across from her door. He fired from the hip as he ran, walking the bullets up the wall and into the meter-square grille. More movement, a jerk. A flash of white light, and suddenly he was lying against the door and the door was open, and Melissa was looking at him. Smiling. Then horrified, and beginning to struggle out of bed. She had a pistol in one hand, and a book in the other. Some distant part of him recognized it; the Church of Sparta Book of Hours.
"No, stay there, darling, please."
"Bastards," he wheezed, levering himself over so that he faced the corridor. The door swung shut behind him. Thin, no protection.
Pain stabbed into his ribs, making him cough. That was a mistake, because white light ran behind his eyelids and the world rocked, and vomiting would really be a mistake if his ribs were in the state he thought they were. Already in hospital, nothing I can do.
"Bastards," he gritted again, and used the rifle to climb to his knees. "Bastards!" The men who had followed him here were down, moving or still but down. An arm dangled out of the black hole up near the roof where the screen had been, shredded and dripping, a head and shoulders and too many teeth showing where blast had ripped the skin and muscle off a skull like a glove off a hand. The body jerked and trembled. Not alive. Moving. More of them in the shaft.
Lysander slumped against the wall, ignoring the gratings under his chest. The armor would hold it for a while. He clamped the rifle between his side and his arm, brought up the wavering muzzle.
"Bastards!"
Bang and ptank as a bullet slammed through the thin lath and thinner metal behind it, the aluminum airshaft itself. Hollow booming as something big thrashed around in that strait space, and the hole began to leak red down the gray-white plaster of the hospital wall.
"Bastards!"
Another shot, another, recoil hammering into his side, spacing them down the length of the corridor, the length of the hidden shaft. Someone came up behind him, another rifleman, firing with him, slow and deliberate. Then a thunderclap; fire shot out around the body stuck in the hole like a cork in a bottle, and plaster showered down as the metal ballooned. Harv came trotting down the corridor reloading his grenade launcher, calling over his shoulder for stretcher-bearers.
Lysander looked to see who his companion was. "Well, Cornet Talkins. I think you've earned another favor. Now do me one. Stay with Melissa."
"Aye aye, sir."
Harv brought the medics up. "Lady, I sure thank you," he said. "It was supposed to be me with the Prince, and—" He gestured to the medics.
"I can stand," Lysander gritted. "I can't sprint but I can command. Get me up. Back to the war room. Now."
Centrifugal force kept the outer rim of the space station at .9 gee, which was comfortable compared to Sparta. Everyone knew that high gravity was much better for your health, people in high gravity planets lived longer due to the increased exercise, but .9 gee was still a relief. Sergeant Wallace and the 77th Captain whose name Boris Karantov couldn't remember had remarked on it. They'd talked about many things in an attempt to be pleasant, and to take Karantov's mind off the fact that he was a prisoner in his own office.
After a while they turned on the television screens. They showed the battles in Sparta City from the view of the Marines of the 77th. The battle wasn't going smoothly. In five hours they'd made a wreck of part of the city but they hadn't stopped the city resistance at all. And now there were other scenes, of rebels attacking the citizens although they carefully avoided fighting any units of the 77th.
Boris Karantov watched the battle with horror. He maintained a chilly silence until the Marine lieutenant had left the room. Then he spoke to the polite Line Marine sergeant. "Sergeant Wallace, good men are being killed down there. Your comrades, Legionnaires, Spartans. And you are illegally detaining legitimate CoDominium authorities who could end this madness."
The Line Marine sergeant didn't like his situation at all. "Sir, the Captain told me—"
"Sergeant, do you deny that I am senior CoDominium Marine officer in this system?"
"No, sir."
"Then forget your captain. I am giving you orders: assist me in regaining control of this station."
"Colonel, I can't do that—"
"Sergeant, you will do that. Or shoot me now. If you disobey this order and I am alive when this is over, Sergeant Wallace, I will have you hanged in low gravity, and the last thing you will see will be recordings of that." He pointed at the screens. "Or do you tell me you join military services to accomplish that?"
"Jesus, Colonel, all I know is they tell me—" He lowered his voice. "Colonel, the story is you're all Lermontov people, and Lermontov is out. Arrested. Admiral Townsend is in charge now."
"And you believe Fleet will go over to Townsend, which is to say, Bronson?"
"God damn, Colonel, we don't know jack shit about politics, I know I got my orders."
"Which are rescinded," a voice said from behind him. "Sergeant, if you reach for that weapon I will cheerfully cut your throat. Colonel, if you'll relieve him of that sidearm—there. Thank you."
"Thank you. Now who are you?" Karantov demanded.
"Master Sergeant Hiram Laramie, SAS, Falkenberg's Legion, at your service, Colonel. When we couldn't raise communications, Colonel Owensford sent us up to have a look."
"How the fuck did you get here?" Sergeant Wallace demanded.
"I confess curiosity myself," Karantov said.
"Navy helped," Laramie said. "They was getting worried they couldn't reach Captain Newell or any of their own officers, sir, so they was glad to help us come take a look. Lieutenant Deighton's looking to help Captain Newell, sir."
"What have you done with the others of the 77th?"
"Got 'em handcuffed outside," Laramie said. "Sergeant Wallace, if you'll put your hands behind you—careful, now, and nobody gets hurt. Thank you. Colonel, General Owensford would like mightily to speak with you. Shall I get him for you?"
"Yes, please, Sergeant. And please to find out status of Fleet Captain Newell, if you will . . ."
Marine Captain Saunders Laubenthal slid up behind the windowsill and looked out onto the street outside. The dead from the last Spartan counterattack littered it; many were down below, where his men had had to clear them out with grenades.
We took the street, he thought bitterly. And now there's another bloody street to take.
"Irony," he muttered to himself.
"Sir?" Sandeli said.
The black was the senior sergeant now, and second-in-command of the company since Lieutenant Cernkov had been carried back to the enclave and the regeneration stimulators. The unit had taken twenty percent casualties in the night's fighting.
"I was planning to retire here," Laubenthal said absently. "Gods, if these are militia we're fighting, I'd hate to see their best. They just don't give up."
From another window fire stabbed out across the street toward the Spartan positions. A body pitched forward to tumble off a balcony and forward to the pavement two stories below, a rifle rattling beside it.
"Got them pretty well suppressed, sir," Sandeli said.
Hint. "All right; tell first platoon to—"
A sound interrupted him, a high-pitched shrieking from further down the street to the north, back along their path. Then a scatter of running figures; they were pushing a handcart before them, with a uniformed Spartan wired to the front of it and a thicker mob behind. The uniform was on fire, and the mob behind fell on the Spartan wounded in the street below the Marine position with clubs and tools and bayoneted rifles. More screams rose, and the flood of ragged humanity spilled over to the building the Royalists still held; the Marines had done their work of suppressing fire all too well.
"Kaak," Sandeli muttered in his native tongue: shit.
Captain Laubenthal stood and touched the side of his helmet. "The last bloody straw," he muttered. "Damned if I'll see good soldiers murdered."
"Sir?"
"It appears that we're out of touch with HQ, sergeant," he said. "I do not seem to hear a thing. A Company! Open fire, selective. Drive off those jackals and rescue the Spartans."
"Sir?"
"You heard me, soldier!"
"Fucking A, sir! Carruthers. New targets! Clean house!" He turned back to his captain. "Sir, I hope you never get that mother fucking radio working again."
"Owensford here."
"Deighton here, sir. I have Fleet Captain Newell and Colonel Karantov with me."
"Thank God. Boris, what's happening up there?"
"Ciotti's people had us under house arrest," Karantov said.
"Thought it was something like that. Guildford too?"
"Sir, they've taken him somewhere else, possibly aboard that battlecruiser Patton, sir," Lieutenant Deighton said.
"Thank you. But you have returned control of the CD space station to Fleet Captain Newell and Colonel Karantov?"
"I can do that now, sir. Fleet Captain, Colonel, any time you'd like you can relieve my troops with those you've selected."
"I will see to this," Boris Karantov said. "I also wish to see that my landing craft is made ready. Piotr Stefanovich, my thanks. We will speak again."
"General Slater, let me add my thanks as well," Newell said. "I can't say I enjoyed being under arrest."
"No, sir. If you'll pardon me, Captain, what the hell is going on? Has Ciotti lost his mind?"
"Not quite," Newell said. "According to the sergeant who was holding Colonel Karantov prisoner, Ciotti got, along with his orders to come here and arrest you, a message to the effect that Lermontov has been deposed. It doesn't seem to have been an official order signed by the Grand Senate, but a message from someone at Fleet Headquarters. There was another from the Grand Senate, or maybe from a Senate Committee."
"Or an individual Grand Senator?"
"Possibly. Since Ciotti's the only one we know who read it, I don't have the details. All I know is, we got word Ciotti was coming with special orders, and as soon as he got here he used his troops to take control of this station. We didn't suspect a thing. I couldn't figure out what was his hurry, but then not long after Ciotti's takeover here, Signals got a long coded message from Fleet Headquarters. Ciotti's people can't decode it, and my people said they couldn't, but that may have been a story for Ciotti. I'm checking on that now."
"From Fleet Headquarters, but can't be decoded by Fleet signal officers," Owensford said. "Captain, if all else fails, perhaps Colonel Karantov can decode it. Or King Alexander."
"Hmm. I see," Newell said. "All right, I'll have a copy sent down to you. If you can read it, I expect you ought to."
"Meanwhile, what do you intend to do?" Owensford asked. "With Guildford out of communications, you're the senior Fleet official in this system."
"Until Guildford shows up again," Newell said. "Or we get authenticated orders from Fleet Headquarters."
"And if Lermontov has been thrown out in a Bronson coup?" Owensford asked.
"I'll think about that. Now, if you'll excuse me, General, I thank you for the rescue, but there are serious matters demanding my attention. I want to get to my ship!"
"Certainly. When you get the urgent parts done, Admiral Forrest and Captain Nosov would like to speak with you."
Newell grinned. "I just expect they—I have an intercom light, Colonel Karantov wants to be patched in. Just a moment. Boris?"
"Da. Piotr Stefanovich?"
"I'm here, Boris."
"Do not surrender. I am departing for planetary surface," he said. "Godspeed my friend."
"Are we going to die, Mrs. Fuller?" the girl said.
Juanita Fuller looked around the bombproof shelter at the sea of faces; there were fifty children here, and hers was the ultimate responsibility. A dozen shelters like this . . . The one who had asked the question was just too young to be up above helping with the last-ditch defense, around eleven. Her face was grave behind the CBW suit's transparent visor, but some of the others were sniffling back tears.
Mark! something wailed inside her. But Cornet Mark Fuller was with Aviation Company of the Legion on New Washington. Lieutenant by now. If he's still alive. We didn't have enough time! A few months, just enough to begin healing from her horrible captivity in the escaped-convict settlement on Tanith. Now she was supposed to face danger like an officer's lady . . . I'm just a girl, I'm only nineteen.
"Of course we aren't going to die, Roberta," she said, putting a teasing note into her voice. "You just want a chance to get up there and fire a gun." The miniuzi hung heavy on her hip. I did all right on the firing range. Could I use it on a man?
"Let's have a song, everybody," she said. "Because there's no school today . . .
Little bunny froo-froo
Hoppin' through the forest—"
Roberta began to sing, and then the others took it up:
"Pickin' up the field mice
Whackin' 'em on the head!"
"Jodie! Do not whack Angie on the head!"
"Something funny that I didn't notice, Kinnie?" Captain Jesus Alana asked. The motion sensors said a company level attack was coming out of them through the fire and smoke of the night; the Legion had pulled back to its original encampment, setting incendiaries in the huge Royal Army logistics buildings that made up much of the base.
Base commander, he thought. Base commander of a rifle platoon. Adult hands were far too few in Fort Plataia to spare anyone from the firing line.
Hassan al'Jinnah chuckled again. "Just reminds me of old times, sor," he said, stroking the stock of his machine gun. "Ah, here they come." The Berber had been a long-service man when the Legion was still the 42nd CoDominium Marines and John Christian Falkenberg III had been a junior captain; for the last twenty-five years his job had been chief mess steward. "Reminds me of Kennicott, sor."
A very good steward, since he was devoutly Muslim and never touched alcohol. The cocking lever of his rifle made a tch-clack sound as he eased it backward and chambered a round.
Jesus Alana pressed his eyes to the vision block. The dark outside slipped away, replaced by a silvery day like none waking eyes had ever seen. The vast stores area in the western extension of the base was a pillar of flame behind the advancing Helots; two light tanks in the lead, and an infantry screen following. They came at a cautious trot, the AFVs taking advantage of each building, and the foot soldiers moving forward by squads and sections.
"Pretty drill," he said, and pressed the stud. The ground erupted in a line of orange fire. He blinked; when he opened his eyes again his wife was beside him, whistling through her teeth.
Cathy only does that when she's really nervous, he thought, unslinging his rifle. Her grenade launcher spat out its five rounds, choonk-choonk-choonk-choonk.
There were no living targets when he brought up his weapon. "Doubt they'll try that again," he said thoughtfully. "And it can't have been their whole effort."
The posts reported in, except for one. "Three?" he said. "Post three?"
Mortar shells whistled overhead. Landline cut? Possibly, and he had no one to spare to look.
"They'll be back. At least once," he said.
"Twice," al' Jinneh said. "Care for a bet, sor? Bottle of Cavaret Zinfandel?"
"Against what?"
"Blue Mountain coffee, sor. Half a pound."
"Done. Though you win either way, Mess Steward."
Lieutenant Colonel Scott Farley studied the map table, then looked up to Colonel Marco Ciotti. "Six companies fail to report, Colonel."
"The communications environment is very bad," Ciotti said. "But this is strange. Send messengers with new equipment and orders to report instantly."
"Yes, sir." Is it that he doesn't know, or he doesn't want to know? Six companies don't report. We know two went over to the enemy! Could it be all six? Six companies of Line Marines gone over to the enemy! Nothing like that has happened in thirty years. Of course they haven't exactly gone over, but they're helping the Spartans put down the Minetown rebellion, and a damned good thing, too. Surely Ciotti knows?
"The assault on Fort Plataia has been repulsed," Ciotti said.
"Yes sir."
"Have them regroup and wait for assistance. Sergeant Kramer, get me Captain Donovic on the Patton."
"Yes, sir. Have to relay through the space station, sir."
"That's all right."
"Yes, sir. It'll be a minute."
Scott Farley watched the map display, but his attention was on the colonel. He had a very good idea what Ciotti had in mind, and he didn't like it.
"Here's Captain Donovic, sir."
"Ciotti here. Captain, I'm losing far too many men in this operation. I need your help. Please set up to bombard designated targets in the Government House and Fort Plataia areas."
"You really think that's necessary?" Donovic asked. "Guildford isn't going to like it."
"I see no point in telling Commodore Guildford until the battle is over," Ciotti said. "I also see no point in continuing to take casualties from these people. They were given every opportunity for honorable surrender, but it is clear they intend to fight long after the result is inevitable. Why should I let our Marines be slaughtered in this senseless action?"
Senseless. It's senseless, all right, Lt. Col. Farley thought. But not the way you think! God damn, God damn, damn—
"Colonel, I'm not sure this is wise," Captain Donovic said.
"What is unwise is holding off any longer," Ciotti said. "You know what is at stake here, and time is not on our side. Now please make ready for kinetic energy weapon bombardments. I will designate targets. It will not take long, and we will finish the resistance, at Fort Plataia and in the city itself. We can then proceed with our plans."
"All right," Donovic said. "I don't like it, but I like failure even less, and as you say, time isn't exactly our friend here. Sound general quarters. Battle stations. Prepare for planetary bombardment." Alarm klaxons hooted in the background.
"Captain Donovic."
The voice was strange. Everyone in the map table room looked up, startled.
"Who the hell is that?" Donovic demanded.
"This is Fleet Captain Samuel Newell. I am apparently the senior CoDominium officer present. Captain Donovic, I forbid you to use your ship to take part in this battle. You will please secure from general quarters and report to me in person. You will find me aboard Vera Cruz."
"How the hell—" Ciotti said.
"You're not the system commander," Donovic said.
"No, I understand that Commodore Guildford is a guest aboard your ship, Captain Donovic," Newell said. "I trust he is better pleased with that status than I was in my own offices on the space station. I have not heard you order your ship secured from general quarters, Captain, and I am waiting."
"Be damned if I'll take orders from you."
"Very well," Newell said. "Commander Taylor, sound general quarters. Battle stations. Divisions report when cleared for action."
"Vera Cruz. A cruiser," Donovic said. "This is a battle cruiser. You're bluffing."
"Am I? Taylor, general signal to the squadron. Continue previous deployment. Battle stations, prepare for fleet action against the battlecruiser Patton. All units to report when ready for action."
"Volga on station and ready for action, sir!"
"Kirov, cleared for action, will be on station in five minutes, sir!"
"Newell, you've lost your mind! Are you going to fire on me? We need unity in the Fleet, not this!"
"Exactly, Captain Donovic," Newell said. "And you're going to achieve unity by bombarding an independent planet against the direct orders of the system commanders? Ever think that our families are down there on Sparta where you've helped start a God damned war?"
"Aegir sounding general quarters now. On station in twenty minutes."
"You're not Commander Clarkson!" Donovic shouted.
"No, sir, this is Lieutenant Commander Nielsen."
"Where's Clarkson?"
"He's not available, sir," Nielsen said. "Proceeding with general quarters, Captain Newell."
"Thank you. Captain. Donovic, I am still waiting."
There was a long pause. Then: "You know, there's never been a fleet action like this, four smaller ships against a battle cruiser. I think we can take you, Newell."
"Plus the space station. All units, prepare for general engagement."
"But we'd be hurt pretty bad. And what the hell, we might not win. Robbie, secure from general quarters. Captain Newell, you'll understand if I decline your invitation to join you aboard your ship, but I agree we'll need to continue this conversation without so many eavesdroppers.
"Colonel Ciotti, I regret that your request for fire support has been overruled by the acting system commander. I fear you're on your own. Good luck."
The speakers went silent. Ciotti cursed quietly. "All right. We'll have to do it on our own." He looked at the map table. "Maybe we won't have to take the Palace. It looks like the rebels are about to do that."
"GO!" Group Leader Derex was screaming like a madman. "Go! Go! Go!"
The Helots streamed toward the palace steps. One unit dashed to the flagstaff to haul down the crowned mountain of the Dual Monarchy. Their leader had begun to unfasten the halyards when a group burst out of the palace.
An old man, and ten of the ceremonial Life Guards. They didn't look ceremonial at all though, as they deployed on the huge steps, hiding behind Doric columns and the great lion statues.
Someone fired four times. The elderly leader of the Guards took another step forward, stumbled, and fell. For a moment there was a lull in the fighting. A woman burst out of the palace and ran to bend over him. She was still for a moment, then she stood.
"Spartans! They have killed the King! The Helots have killed the King!"
A moment of hushed silence; then a roar. From the palace, from the buildings around the square, from tunnels, seemingly from the sky itself, the cry was repeated. "Spartans! The Helots have killed the King!"
And another cry, wordless, an animal sound of rage. The Life Guards charged forward, firing coldly and efficiently and rapidly. They reached the party around the flagstaff, and the only Helots still standing were battered to the ground. One of the guards fell on the Helot soldier and beat him with his rifle butt.
And from the square came militia, wounded soldiers, old men and women, children barely old enough to seize weapons from the fallen. They came out and they came out to kill.
Derex watched his command dissolve, vanish, not so much beaten as destroyed. Men threw down their weapons to run, and that was no good either. The enemy was out now, out in the open, out where they could be killed, but they weren't dying, it was his men who were being slaughtered, shot, stabbed, strangled, beaten to death with baseball bats. A woman sat on a Helot's chest and pounded at his head with an iron frying pan.
Derex stood to rally the men, and a grenade landed nearby. He threw himself away from it, to the ground, but the world had turned to slow motion, he couldn't fall fast enough, and the sound of the grenade was louder than anything he had ever heard in his life.
The screens panned down a street where outnumbered Spartan militia battled a Helot mob. The pickup was back far enough that it didn't show all the details, but there were enough.
Farley looked at the others in the room, Colonel Ciotti, looking unhappier by the minute, like a man out on a limb with no way off it. Major Bannister, staring at the map table with tears in his eyes, unable to look at his colonel. Sergeant Major Immanual Kramer, who didn't look much better. Lieutenant Beeson, who kept looking at the monitor screens as if he hoped they'd go away.
We're on the wrong side, Farley thought. And I'm senior man except for the Colonel. I should do something. But— The cry came through the speaker system. "Spartans! They have killed the King!"
Ciotti looked up from the map. "Sorry to hear that."
"Sorry to hear that," Lt. Colonel Farley said. Something burst inside his head. "Sorry to hear that! Sorry to hear that!"
"Control yourself, Scott," Ciotti said.
Scott Farley stood stiffly for a moment. He looked to the others in the room. They didn't move. He put his hand to his pistol. Ciotti stared in disbelief, and still no one moved.
"Colonel," Farley said. "We're on the wrong side here."
"How dare you—"
"I dare because I'm right," Farley said. "And you know it, Colonel. I don't know what was in those goddam coded messages, I don't know what Bronson promised you, but Colonel, it couldn't possibly be worth this!"
"Spartans! They have killed the King! The Helots have killed the King!"
"Thank God!" Lieutenant Beeson said.
"Beeson?" Ciotti said.
"It wasn't us, it was the Helots," Beeson said. "Colonel Farley's right, sir, we're on the wrong side."
"Farley, I will overlook—"
"No, sir, no you won't, because I won't back off," Farley said. "Colonel, I can't take this. I'm relieving you of command. Bannister, general orders, all units. Cease operations against the Spartans, and assist the Spartans against those barbarians."
Bannister stood frozen.
"Do it and I'll have you in a cell with this mutineer," Ciotti said. "Sergeant Major."
"Sir?"
"Please conduct Colonel Farley to the Provost Marshal for confinement. Bannister, order the renewed assault on Fort Plataia."
Bannister didn't move.
Neither did Sergeant Major Kramer.
"Spartans! They have killed the King!"
Ciotti looked around wildly. His pistol was hung neatly with his uniform tunic in the cloak room. "Sergeant Major—"
Kramer shook himself, as if to wake up. "No, sir."
"Sergeant, you've been with me twenty years!"
"I'm with you now, Colonel. I'll always be with you. But—we're on the wrong side, Colonel, it's the wrong fucking side, and you know it, sir, you have to know it."
Farley nodded slowly. "Sergeant Major, I think Colonel Ciotti has had a mild stroke. He needs rest. Please take him to his quarters and look after him. Major Bannister, please send that order."
Bannister nodded slowly. He raised the microphone. "All units," he said. "Attention to orders."
When Colonel Karantov and his Fleet Marine guards arrived ten minutes later, he found the 77th in full cooperation with the Spartan forces. The battle of Sparta City was over.