Peter's company advanced thirty kilometers in the next three days. They crossed the valley with its dry river of sand and moved swiftly into the low brush on the other side. They were halted at the top of the ridge.
Rockets and artillery fire exploded all around them. There was no one to fight, only unseen enemies on the next ridge, and the fire poured into their positions for three days.
The enemy fire held them while the glare and heat of Thurstone's sun punished them. Men became snowblind, and wherever they looked there was only one color: fiery yellow. When grass and trees caught fire they hardly noticed the difference.
When the water ran out they retreated. There was nothing else to do. They fled back across the valley, past the positions they'd won, halting to let other units pass while they held the road. On the seventh day after they'd left it, they were back on the road where they'd jumped off into the valley.
There was no organization. Peter was the only officer among 172 men of a battalion that had neither command nor staff; just 172 men too tired to care.
"We've the night, anyway," Roach said. He sat next to Peter and took out a cigarette. "Last tobacco in the battalion, Cap'n. Share?"
"No, thanks. Keep it all."
"One night to rest," Roach said again. "Seems like forever, a whole night without anybody shooting at us."
Fifteen minutes later Peter's radio squawked. He strained to hear the commands through the static and jamming. "Call the men together," Peter ordered when he'd heard it out.
"It's this way," he told them. "We still hold Zaragoza. There's a narrow corridor into the town, and unless somebody gets down there to hold it open, we'll lose the village. If that goes, our whole position in the valley's lost."
"Cap'n, you can't ask it!" The men were incredulous. "Go back down into there? You can't make us do that!"
"No. I can't make you. But remember Zaragoza? Remember how the people cheered us when we marched in? It's our town. Nobody else set those people free. We did. And there's nobody else who can go help keep them free, either. No other reinforcements. Will we let them down?"
"We can't," Allan Roach said. "It needs doing. I'll come with you, Cap'n."
One by one the others got to their feet. The ragged column marched down the side of the ridge, out of the cool heights where their water was assured, down into the valley of the river of sand.
By dawn they were half a kilometer from the town. Republican troops streamed down the road toward them. Others ran through the olive groves that lined both sides of the road.
"Tanks!" someone shouted. "Tanks coming!"
It was too late. The enemy armor had bypassed Zaragoza and was closing on them fast. The Dons' infantry came right behind the tanks. Peter swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, and ordered his men to dig in among the olive trees. It would be their last battle.
An hour later they were surrounded. Two hours passed as they fought to hold the useless groves. The tanks had long since passed their position, but the enemy was still all around them. Then the shooting stopped, and silence lay over the grove.
Peter crawled around the perimeter of his command: a hundred meters, no more. He had fewer than fifty men.
Allan Roach lay in a shallow hole at one edge. He was partially covered by ripe olives shaken from the trees, and when Peter came close, the sergeant laughed. "Makes you feel like a salad," he said, brushing away more olives. "What do we do, Cap'n? Why do you think they quit shooting?"
"Wait and see."
It didn't take long. "Will you surrender?" a voice called.
"To whom?" Peter demanded.
"Captain Hans Ort, Second Friedland Armored Infantry."
"Mercenaries," Peter hissed. "How did they get here? The CD was supposed to have a quarantine. . . ."
"Your position is hopeless, and you are not helping your comrades by holding it," the voice shouted.
"We're keeping you from entering the town!" Peter shouted back.
"For a while. We can go in any time, from the other side. Will you surrender?"
Peter looked helplessly at Roach. He could hear the silence among the men. They didn't say anything, and Peter was proud of them. But, he thought, I don't have any choice. "Yes," he shouted.
The Friedlanders wore dark green uniforms, and looked very military compared to Peter's scarecrows. "Mercenaries?" Captain Ort asked.
Peter opened his mouth to answer defiance. A voice interrupted him. "Of course they're mercenaries." Ace Barton limped up to them.
Ort looked at them suspiciously. "Very well. You wish to speak with them, Captain Barton?"
"Sure. I'll get some of 'em out of your hair," Barton said. He waited until the Friedlander was gone. "You almost blew it, Pete. If you'd said you were volunteers, Ort would have turned you over to the Dons. This way, he keeps you. And believe me, you'd rather be with him."
"What are you doing here?" Peter demanded.
"Captured up north," Barton said. "By these guys. There's a recruiter for Falkenberg's outfit back in the rear area. I signed up, and they've got me out looking for a few more good men. You want to join, you can. We'll be off this planet next week; and of course you won't be doing any fighting here."
"I told you, I'm not a mercenary—"
"What are you?" Barton asked. "What have you got to go back to? Best you can hope for here is to be interned. But you don't have to make up your mind just yet. Come on back to town." They walked through the olive groves toward the Zaragoza town wall. "You opted for CD service, didn't you." Barton said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes. Not to be one of Falkenberg's—"
"You think everything's going to be peaceful out here when the CoDominium fleet pulls out?"
"No. But I like to choose my wars."
"You want a cause. So did I, once. Now I'll settle for what I've got. Two things to remember, Pete. In an outfit like Falkenberg's, you don't choose your enemies, but you'll never have to break your word. And just what will you do for a living now?"
He had no answer to that. They walked on.
"Somebody's got to keep order out here," Barton said. "Think about it."
They had reached the town. The Friedland mercenaries hadn't entered it; now a column of monarchist soldiers approached. Their boots were dusty and their uniforms torn, so that they looked little different from the remnants of Peter's command.
As the monarchists reached the town gates, the village people ran out of their houses. They lined both sides of the streets. As the Carlists entered the public square, the cheering began.
Lysander drained his glass. The water pitcher was empty. "That's quite a story, captain. One thing—what did you do with that fission bomb?"
"Turned it over to Falkenberg."
"And he—?"
"Damned if I know."
"In any event Major Barton doesn't have it," Lysander said.
"Remember, that all happened twelve years ago. If Ace Barton thinks he needs a nuke, he'll have one."
"Twelve years, and you still think quite highly of him."
"Obviously. I'm not looking forward to this fight."
"Maybe there won't be one," Lysander said. "Colonel Falkenberg told Governor Blaine this was a political matter, and should be settled by political means."
"I hope he's right, but Ace won't give up easily."
"Of course there's one simple solution. . . ."
"Yes?"
"Just get control of the harvest they've been holding back."
"That would do it, all right." Owensford chuckled. "But Ace knows that as well as we do. He's been damned clever about hiding the stuff. Rottermill has his people sweating blood over the satellite photos, but so far they've got damn all."
"You can't bribe one of the planters?"
"It's been tried. They don't know either. Apparently Barton tells them the delivery point, and his troops take it from there."
Lysander's mental concentration wasn't helped by the residual effects of the evening's liquor. He frowned. "It has to be a pretty big place. Even if it's concentrated there has to be tons of the stuff. Not easy to hide."
"Maybe not. But they've done it."
Lysander closed the door and leaned against it. He didn't bother with the room lights. Gray dawn let him see well enough to move without bumping into the furniture, and despite Owensford's nostrum, bright light was more than he wanted to deal with. "Sleep," he muttered. He stripped off his tunic and trousers and threw them over a chair, then staggered to the bed.
There was someone in it. "Who the hell?"
"Umm? Lynn?"
"Ursula?"
"Oh my God, what time is it?"
"Quarter past five. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I didn't want to sleep alone. Why are you just standing there? It's cold in here."
"Not for long." He slid in beside her and settled himself against the curve of her body. A few moments later he gently but firmly folded her hands together in front of her. "Not now, Ursa. Please."
"Aww. Head hurt?"
"Not as much as it did."
"You should drink water—"
"Good God, darling, what do you think I've been doing?"
"You've been drinking water for four hours? Uh— Your Highness—"
He laughed, but that hurt his head. "Water. Vitamin gunk. Listening to Captain Owensford's story."
"Must have been quite a story!"
"It was. Also trying to figure out where those damned ranchers are hiding gallons and gallons of drugs. But we didn't get anywhere."
"Oh. All right. Good night."
"Ursa—what the hell will you do in the morning?"
"Have breakfast with you. Good night."
The Officers' Mess was empty. Lysander and Ursula chose a table in the corner, out of earshot of the steward, and set down their breakfast trays.
"Sorry about the selection," Lysander said, grimacing at his bowl of what looked like green oatmeal.
"This late, we're lucky to get anything at all. Anyway, you look a lot more chipper than you did half an hour ago."
"I'm going to take the formula for that vitamin gunk back to Sparta. We'll make it a government monopoly and after five years we'll be able to abolish taxes." He clinked his coffee mug against hers. "Now suppose you tell me what's been on your mind since we woke up."
She sipped her coffee. "Lynn—they'd have to move those drugs by helicopter, wouldn't they?"
"Uh?"
"The planters. The rebels."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose they would. Why have you been brooding about that?"
"Shouldn't I be interested? Or is this purely a man's problem?"
"Come on, Ursa. I don't deserve that."
She sighed. "No. I guess you don't."
"What is it, then? Do you have an idea?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
"Well, tell me."
"I—I'm ashamed to."
"What? This is me, remember?" He set down his coffee mug and put his arm around her shoulders. "Whatever it is—"
"Of course. Very well. It happened about six weeks before you came to Tanith. Before we met."
"Yes?"
"Remember I told you that some of us, some of the hotel girls, got sent on tours of the plantations?"
"Good God! You mean you—"
"No, not me. Not exactly. I was luckier. I was—don't look at me while I tell you this."
"Whatever this is, you'd better tell me. Now, what was it?"
"I was—it was a birthday party for a planter's son. His sixteenth birthday. I was—you've read Mead and Benedict, haven't you? This was, well, Coming of Age On Tanith." She laughed dryly.
"Ursa—" His arm tightened around her.
"Never mind that. That was—business. There was something else. It didn't mean anything to me at the time, but now—"
Lysander set down his spoon. "Tell me."