Sword And The Sceptre (Part 2)
Jerry Pournelle

 

SYNOPSIS 

In the closing years of the Twenty-first Century the nearly one hundred inhabited planets are largely dominated by the CoDominium and its Navy. The CD was created by a series of treaties between the United States and the Soviet Union, and although the two great powers detest each other, the CD Space Navy has been able to keep peace between them. The cost has been high, including suppression of scientific research, suppression of colonial independence, and numerous secret schemes the Navy uses to keep itself powerful despite continual budget cuts. 

The Franklin Confederacy consists of two small planets orbiting a red dwarf star at the edge of inhabited space. Franklin was settled first, and dominates its twin planet, New Washington, which is largely agricultural. Neither planet has much inhabitable area, and New Washington is largely covered by seas. Washington has revolted against the Confederate government, but Franklin's mercenary armies, particularly Friedland armor and Covenant Highlander infantry, have suppressed the Patriot rebels. Now Franklin plans to exploit New Washington, build a fleet, and declare complete independence from CoDominium supervision. The CD Grand Senate, concerned with problems closer to home, is ignoring the situation. 

HOWARD BANNISTER, Minister of War for the Patriot rebel movement on New Washington, goes to the CD prison planet Tanith and hires the well-equipped but stranded mercenary legion commanded by JOHN CHRISTIAN FALKENBERG, III. The rebels have secreted nuclear weapons in the Confederate capital of Franklin, and this threat plus the CD Navy's ban on nukes will keep the war "conventional," but cannot keep it from being ruthlessly fought. 

Colonel FALKENBERG, cashiered from the CD Marines for insubordination, agrees to take his Regiment to Washington in exchange for a permanent land grant. His former job chasing prisoners on Tanith is taking the edge off his fighting forces, which were recruited around the disbanded CD Marine regiment he once commanded. 

BANNISTER pays New Jerusalem to transport FALKENBERG's Regiment to Washington. It lands in a remote area and swiftly captures the mining and smelting town of Allansport at a time when communications from Allansport to the mainland are cut off The Regiment's speed keeps the Confederate spy satellites from seeing anything unusual. FALKENBERG persuades ROGER HASTINGS, Mayor of Allansport and Governor of the Ranier Peninsula Territory, to act as a hostage for his city. He promises HASTINGS that the Regiment will observe the CoDominium Laws of War although the Grand Senate no longer enforces them vigorously. HASTINGS has recently been elected on a platform of erasing the hatreds caused by the previous rebellion, and hopes to see Loyalists and Patriots united again. 

After Allansport is secured, Minister BANNISTER argues that FALKENBERG should liberate Ford Heights' Plateau, a strong Patriot area, but the colonel chooses to assault the powerful Confederate fortress at Astoria. Astoria is the key to the Columbia River Valley and dominates much of New Washington's agricultural area. 

FALKENBERG makes contact with GLENDA RUTH HORTON, leader of the Columbia Valley ranchers. 

GLENDA RUTH, like HOWARD BANNISTER, does not like mercenaries, but knows they are necessary to win freedom from Franklin's policies. 

Astoria falls to ruse and surprise, and FALKENBERG 'S men knock down the Confederate spy satellites at the same time. Now that the Confederates are aware that there is a new rebellion, FALKENBERG takes desperate chances. He risks the Regiment by flinging it northward along the Columbia Valley, while sending Major JEREMY SAVAGE northeast with all available artillery and heavy weapons. SAVAGE must secure the passes leading to the Confederate seat of government on New Washington; if he fails, or if GLENDA RUTH'S irregulars cannot bring up sufficient supplies, the Friedland armored brigade will catch FALKENBERG'S strung out forces and destroy them. 

 

Part 2 

 

VI 

 

Hillyer Gap was a six-kilometer-wide hilly notch in the high mountain chain. The Aldine Mountains ran roughly northwest to southeast, and were joined at their midpoint by the southward-stretching Temblors. Just at the join was the Gap, which connected the capital city plain to the east with the Columbia Valley to the west. 

Major Jeremy Savage regarded his position with satisfaction. He not only had the twenty-six guns taken from the Friedlanders at Astoria, but another dozen captured in scattered outposts along the lower Columbia, and all were securely dug in behind hills overlooking the Gap. Forward of the guns were six companies of infantry, Second Battalion and half of Third, with a thousand ranchers behind in reserve. 

"We won't be outflanked, anyway," Centurion Bryant observed. "Ought to hold just fine, sir." 

"We've a chance," Major Savage agreed. "Thanks to Miss Horton. You must have driven your men right along." 

Glenda Ruth shrugged. Her irregulars had run low on fuel a hundred and eighty kilometers west of the Gap, and she'd brought them on foot in one forced march of thirty hours after sending her ammunition supplies ahead with the last drops of gasoline. "I just came on myself, Major. Wasn't a question of driving them, the men followed right enough." 

Jeremy Savage looked at her quickly but there was no trace of laughter. The slender girl was not very pretty at the moment, with her coveralls streaked with mud and grease, her hair falling in strings from under her cap, but he'd rather have seen her than the current Miss Universe. With her troops and ammunition supplies he had a chance to hold this position. "I suppose they did at that." Centurion Bryant turned away quickly with something caught in his throat. 

"Can we hold until Colonel Falkenberg gets here?" Glenda Ruth asked. "I expect them to send everything they've got." 

"We sincerely hope they do," Jeremy ,Savage answered. "It's our only chance, you know. If that armor gets onto open ground . . ." 

"There's no other way onto the plains, Major," she replied. "The Temblors go right on down to the Matson swamplands, and nobody's fool enough to risk armor there. Great Bend's Patriot country. Between the swamps and the Patriot irregulars it'd take a week to cross the Matson. If they're comin' by land, they're comin' through here." 

"And they'll be coming," Savage finished for her. "They'll want to relieve the Doak's Ferry fortress before we can get it under close siege. At least that was John Christian's plan, and he's usually right." Glenda Ruth used her binoculars to examine the road. There was nothing out there—yet. 

"This colonel of yours. What's in this for him? Nobody gets rich on what we can pay." 

"I should think you'd be glad enough we're here," Jeremy said. 

"Oh, I'm glad all right. In two hundred and forty hours Falkenberg's isolated every Confederate garrison west of the Temblors. The capital city forces are the only army left to fight—you've almost liberated the planet in one campaign." 

"Luck," Jeremy Savage murmured. "Lots of it, all good." 

"Heh." Glenda Ruth was contemptuous. "I don't believe that, no more do you. Sure, with the Confederates scattered out on occupation duty anybody who could get troops to move fast enough could cut the Feddies up before they got into big enough formations to resist. The fact is, Major, nobody believed that could be done except on maps. Not with real troops—and he did it. That's genius, not luck." 

Savage shrugged. "I wouldn't dispute that." 

"No more would I. Now answer this. Just what is a real military genius doing commanding mercenaries on a jerkwater agricultural planet? A man like that should be Lieutenant General of the CoDominium." 

"The CD isn't interested in military genius, Miss Horton. The Grand Senate wants obedience, not competence." 

"Maybe. I hadn't heard Lermontov was a fool and they made him Grand Admiral. O.K., the CoDominium had no use for Falkenberg. But why Washington, Major? With that Regiment you could take nearly anyplace but Sparta, and give the Brotherhoods a run for it there." She swept the horizon with the binoculars, and Savage could not see her eyes. 

The girl disturbed him. No other Free State official questioned the good fortune of hiring Falkenberg. "The Regimental council voted to come here because we were sick of Tanith, Miss Horton." 

"Yeah. Look, I better get some rest if we've got a fight coming—and we do. Look just at the horizon on the left side of the road." As she turned away Centurion Bryant's communicator buzzed. The outposts had spotted the scout elements of an armored force. 

 

Glenda Ruth walked carefully to her bunker. Born on New Washington, she was used to the planet's forty-hour rotation period, and the forced march hadn't been as hard on her as some others, but lack of sleep made her almost intoxicated even so. She acknowledged the greeting of her bunker guards—her ranchers didn't use military formalities like salutes—and stumbled in side to wrap herself in a thin blanket without undressing. 

Falkenberg. Bannister had no right to offer a regiment of mercenaries permanent settlement. There was no way to control a military force like that without keeping a large standing army, and that cure was worse than the disease. Without Falkenberg the revolution was doomed, but what could they do with him? 

There was no one to consult. Her father was the only man she'd ever respected. Before he was killed he'd tried to tell her that winning the war was only a thin part of the problem. There were countries on Earth that had gone through fifty revolutions before they were lucky enough to have a tyrant gain control and stop them. 

As she fell asleep the thought she'd tried to avoid poured past her guard. What if we can't get better than what we had? In her dreams Falkenberg's hard features formed in swirling mist. He was wearing military uniform and sat at a desk, Sergeant Major Calvin at his side. "These can live. Kill those. Send these to the mines," Falkenberg ordered. 

The big sergeant moved tiny figures which looked like model soldiers, but they weren't all troops. One was her father. Another was a group of ranchers. And they weren't models at all. They were real people reduced to miniatures whose screams could barely be heard as the .toneless voice continued to pronounce their dooms ... 

 



 

Brigadier Wilfred von Mellenthin waited impatiently for his scouts to report. He had insisted that the Confederacy immediately send his armor west on the report that Astoria had fallen, but the General Staff waited for more information. It was, they said, too big a risk to send the Confederacy's best forces blindly into what might be a trap. 

Now the General Staff was convinced that they faced only one regiment of mercenaries, and that must have taken heavy casualties in storming Astoria. Von Mellenthin shrugged. Someone was holding the Gap, and he had plenty of respect for the New Washington ranchers. Give them rugged terrain and they could put up a good fight. 

The scouts reported well-dug-in infantry, far more of it than von Mellenthin had expected. That damned Falkenberg—the man had an uncanny ability to move troops. He turned to the chief of staff. "Horst, do you think he has heavy guns here already?" 

Oberst Carnap shrugged. "Weiss nicht, Brigadier. Every hour gives Falkenberg time to dig in at the Gap, and we have lost many hours." 

"Not Falkenberg," Mellenthin corrected. "He is now investing the fortress at Doak's Ferry. We have reports from the Commandant there." He studied the displays on the command table of his caravan. They changed constantly as the scouts sent in reports and staff officers interpreted them. 

"We go through," he said in sudden decision, "with everything. Boot them, don't spatter them." 

"Jawohl." Carnap spoke quietly into his communicator. "It is my duty to point out the risk, Brigadier. We will take heavy losses if they have brought up artillery." 

"I know." Mellenthin regarded the maps again. "But if we fail to get through now, we may never relieve the fortress. Half the war is lost if Doak's Ferry is taken. Better casualties immediately than a long war." 

He led the attack himself. His armor brushed aside the infantry screens, his tanks and their supporting infantry cooperating perfectly to pin down and root out the opposition. They moved swiftly forward to cut the enemy into disconnected fragments for the following Covenanters to mop up. Mellenthin was chewing up the blocking force piecemeal as his brigade rushed deeper into the Gap. 

The sweating tankers approached the irregular ridge at the very top of the pass. Suddenly a fury of small arms and mortar fire swept across them. The tanks moved on, but the infantry scrambled for cover. Armor and infantry became separated—and at that moment his tanks reached the minefields. Brigadier von Mellenthin began to get a case of nerves. 

Logic told him the minefields couldn't be either wide or dense, and if he punched through he would reach the soft headquarters areas of his enemy. Once there his tanks would make short work of the headquarters and depots, the Covenanter infantry would secure the pass, and his Brigade could charge across the open fields beyond. 

But—if the defenders had better transport than the General Staff believed, and thus had thousands of mines, he was dooming his armor. Meanwhile his, supporting infantry was pinned and taking casualties. 

"Send scouting forces," Oberst Carnap urged. 

Mellenthin considered it for a moment. Compromises in war are often worse than either course of action, inviting defeat in detail. He had only moments to reach a decision. "We go forward." 

They reached the narrowest part of the Gap. His force bunched together and his drivers, up to now avoiding terrain features which might be registered by artillery, had to approach conspicuous landmarks. Von Mellenthin gritted his teeth. 

The artillery was perfectly delivered. The Brigade had less than a quarter minute warning as their radars picked up the incoming projectiles, then the shells exploded among his tanks, brushing away the last of the covering infantry. 

As the barrage lifted, hundreds of men appeared from the ground itself. A near perfect volley of infantry-carried antitank rockets slammed into his tanks. Then the radars showed more incoming artillery—and swam in confusion. 

"Ja, that too," von Mellenthin muttered. His counterbattery screens showed a shower of gunk. The defenders were firing chaff, hundreds of thousands of tiny metal chips which drifted slowly to ground. Neither side could now use radar to aim indirect fire—but Mellenthin's armor was under visual observation, while the enemy guns had never been precisely located. 

The Brigade was being torn apart on this killing ground. The lead elements ran into more minefields. 

Defending infantry crouched in holes and ditches, tiny little groups which his covering infantry could sweep aside in a moment if it could get forward, but the infantry was cut off by the barrages falling behind and around the tanks. 

There was no room to maneuver and no infantry support, the classic nightmare of an armor commander. The already rough ground was strewn with pits and ditches. High explosive antitank shells fell all around his force. There were not many hits yet, but any disabled tanks could be pounded to pieces and there was nothing to shoot back at. The lead tanks were under steady fire, and the assault slowed. 

The enemy expended shells at a prodigal rate. Could they keep it up? If they ran out of shells it was all over. Von Mellenthin hesitated. Every moment kept his armor in hell. 

Doubts undermined his determination. Only the Confederate General Staff told him he faced no more than Falkenberg's Legion, and the Staff was wrong before. Whatever was out there had taken Astoria before the commandant could send a single message. At almost the same moment the observation satellite was killed over Allansport. Every fortress along the Columbia was invested within hours. Surely not even Falkenberg could do that with no more than one regiment! 

What was he fighting? If he faced a well-supplied force with transport enough to continue this bombardment for hours, not minutes, the Brigade was lost. His Brigade, the finest armor in the worlds, lost to the faulty intelligence of these damned colonials! 

"Recall the force. Consolidate at Station Hildebrand." The orders flashed out, and the tanks fell back, rescuing the pinned infantry and covering their withdrawal. When the Brigade assembled east of the Gap Mellenthin had lost an eighth of his tanks, and he doubted if he would recover any of them. 

 

VII 

 

The honor guard presented arms as the command caravan unbuttoned. Falkenberg acknowledged their salutes and strode briskly into the staff bunker. "Ten-shut!" Sergeant Major Calvin commanded. 

"Carry on, gentlemen. Major Savage, you'll be pleased to know I've brought the Regimental artillery. We landed it yesterday. Getting a bit thin, wasn't it?" 

"That it was, John Christian," Jeremy Savage answered grimly. "If the battle had lasted another hour we'd have been out of everything. Miss Horton, you can relax now—the colonel said carry on." 

"I wasn't sure," Glenda Ruth huffed. She glanced outside where the honor guard was dispersing and scowled in disapproval. "I'd hate to be shot for not bowing properly." 

Officers and troopers in the command post tensed, but nothing happened. Falkenberg turned to Major Savage. "What were the casualties, Major?" 

"Heavy, sir. We have two hundred and eighty-three effectives remaining in Second Battalion." 

Falkenberg's face was impassive. "And how many walking wounded?" 

"Sir, that includes the walking wounded." 

"I see." Sixty-five percent casualties, not including the walking wounded. "And Third?" 

"I couldn't put together a corporal's guard from the two companies. The survivors are assigned to headquarters duties." 

"What's holding the line out there, Jerry?" Falkenberg demanded. 

"Irregulars and what's left of Second Battalion, Colonel. We are rather glad to see you, don't you know?" 

Glenda Ruth Horton had a momentary struggle with herself. Whatever she might think about all the senseless militaristic rituals Falkenberg was addicted to, honesty demanded that she say something. "Colonel, I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I implied that your men wouldn't fight at Astoria." 

"The question is, Miss Horton, will yours? I have two batteries of the Forty-second's artillery, but I can add nothing to the line itself. My troops are investing Doak's Ferry, my cavalry and First Battalion are on Ford Heights, and the Regiment will be scattered for three more days. Are you saying your ranchers can't do as well as my mercenaries?" 

She nodded unhappily. "Colonel, we could never have stood up to that attack. The Second's senior centurion told me many of his mortars were served by only one man before the battle ended. We'll never have men that steady." 

Falkenberg looked relieved. "Centurion Bryant survived, then." 

"Why—yes." 

"Then the Second still lives. Miss Horton, von Mellenthin won't risk his armor again until the infantry has cleared a hole. Meanwhile, we have the artillery resupplied thanks to your efforts in locating transport. Let's see what we can come up with." 

 

Three hours later the defenses were reorganized. When the final orders were given, Glenda Ruth excused herself. "I have to get my battle armor." 

"That seems reasonable, although the bunkers are built well enough." 

"I won't be in a bunker, Colonel. I'm going on patrol with my ranchers." 

Falkenberg regarded her critically. "I wouldn't think that wise, Miss Horton. Personal courage in a commanding officer is an admirable trait, but—" 

"I know." She smiled softly. "But it needn't be demonstrated because it is assumed, right? Not with us. I can't order the ranchers, and I don't have years of traditions to keep them—that's the reason for all the ceremonials, isn't it?" she asked in surprise. 

Falkenberg ignored the question. "The point is, the men follow you, and I doubt they'd fight as hard for me if you're killed—" 

"Irrelevant, Colonel. Believe me, I don't want to take this patrol out, but if I don't take the first one there may never be another. We're not used to holding lines, and it's taking some doing to keep my troops steady." 

"I'll loan you a centurion and some headquarters guards." 

"No. Send the same troops you'll send with any other Patriot force. Oh, damn. John Christian Falkenberg, don't you see why it has to be this way?" 

He nodded. "I don't have to like it. All right, get your final briefing from the sergeant major in thirty-five minutes. Good luck, Miss Horton." 

 

The patrol moved silently through low scrub brush. Glenda Ruth led a dozen ranchers and one communications maniple of the Forty-second's band. Sergeant Major Calvin had also assigned Sergeant Hruska to assist. The ranchers carried rifles. Three of Falkenberg's men had automatic weapons, two more had communications gear, and Sergeant Hruska had a submachine gun. It seemed a pitifully small force to contest ground with Covenant Highlanders. 

They passed through the final outposts of her nervous ranchers and moved into the valleys between the hills. Glenda Ruth felt completely alone in the total silence of the night. She wondered if the others felt it too. Certainly the ranchers did—what of the mercenaries? They were with comrades who shared their meals and bunkers, and as long as one was alive there would be someone to care. Did they think about such things? She tried to imagine the thoughts of a mercenary private, but it was impossible. 

They were nearly a kilometer beyond the lines when she found a narrow gully two meters deep. It meandered down the hillside along the approaches to the outposts behind her, and any attacking force assaulting her sector would have to pass it. She motioned the men into the ditch. 

Waiting was hardest of all. The ranchers continually moved about, and she had to crawl along the gully whispering them to silence. Five hours went by, each an agony of waiting, glancing at her watch to see that no time had elapsed since the last time she'd looked, staring out into the night until she could see shapes that weren't there. 

In the starlit gloom she could almost see the miniature figures again. Falkenherg's impassive orders rang in her ears. "Kill this one. Send this one to the mines." Now the miniatures were joined by larger figures in battle armor. With a sudden start she knew they were real. Two men stood motionless in the draw below her. 

She touched Sergeant Hruska and pointed. The trooper looked carefully and nodded. As they watched, more figures joined the pair of scouts, until soon there were nearly fifty of them in the fold of the hill, two hundred meters away. They were too far for her squad's weapons to have much effect, and a whispered command sent Hruska crawling along the gully to order the men to stay down and be silent. 

The group continued to grow. She couldn't see them all, and since she could count nearly a hundred she must be observing the assembly area of a full company. Were these the dreaded Highlanders? Memories of her father's defeat came unwanted and she brushed them away. They were only hired men—but they fought for glory, and somehow that was enough to make them terrible. 

After a long time the enemy began moving toward her. They formed a V-shape with the point aimed almost directly at her position, and she searched for the ends of the formation. What she saw made her gasp. 

Four hundred meters to her left was another company of soldiers in double file. They moved silently and swiftly up the hill, and the lead elements were already far beyond her position. Frantically she looked to the right, focusing the big electronic light amplifying glasses—and saw another company of men half a kilometer away. A full Highlander battalion was moving right up her hill in an inverted M, and the group in front of her was the connecting sweep to link the assault columns. In minutes they would be among the ranchers in the defense line. 

Still she waited, until the dozen Highlanders of the point were ten meters from her. She shouted commands. "Up and at them! Fire!" From both ends of her ditch the mercenaries' automatic weapons chattered, then their fire was joined by her riflemen. The point was cut down to a man, and Sergeant Hruska directed fire on the main body, while Glenda Ruth shouted into her communicator. 

"Fire Mission. Flash Uncle Four!" 

There was a moment's delay which seemed like years. "Flash Uncle Four." Another long pause. "On the way," an unemotional voice answered. She thought it sounded like Falkenberg, but she was too busy to care. 

"Reporting," she said. "At least one battalion of light infantry in assault columns is moving up hill 905 along ridges Uncle and Zebra." 

"They're shifting left, Miss." She looked up to see Hruska. The noncom pointed to the company in front of her position. Small knots of men curled leftward. They hugged the ground and were visible only for seconds. 

"Move some men to that end of the gully," she ordered. It was too late to shift artillery fire. Anyway, if the Highlanders ever got to the top of the ridge, the ranchers wouldn't hold them. She held her breath and waited. 

There was the scream of incoming artillery, then the night was lit by bright flashes. VT shells fell among the distant enemy on the left flank. "Pour it on!" she shouted into the communicator. "On target!" 

"Right. On the way." 

She was sure it was Falkenberg himself at the other end. Catlike she grinned in the dark. What was a colonel doing as a telephone orderly? Was he worried about her? She almost laughed at the thought. Certainly he was, the ranchers would be hard to handle without her. 

The ridge above erupted in fire. Mortars and grenades joined the artillery pounding the leftward assault column. Glenda Ruth paused to examine the critical situation to the right. The assault force five hundred meters away was untouched, and continued to advance toward the top of the ridge. It was going to be close. 

She let the artillery hold its target another five minutes while her riflemen engaged the company in front of her, then took up the radio again. The right-hand column had nearly reached the ridges, and she wondered if she had waited too long. 

"Fire mission. Flash Zebra Nine." 

"Zebra Nine," the emotionless voice replied. There was a short delay, then, "On the way." The fire lifted from the left flank almost immediately, and two minutes later began to fall five hundred meters to the right. 

"They're flanking us, Miss," Sergeant Hruska reported. She'd been so busy directing artillery at the assaults against the ridge line that she'd actually forgotten her twenty men were engaged in a fire fight with over a hundred enemies. "Shall we pull back?" Hruska asked. 

She tried to think, but it was impossible in the noise and confusion. The assault columns were still moving ahead, and she had the only group that could observe the entire attack. Every precious shell had to count. "No. We'll hold on here." 

"Right, Miss." The sergeant seemed to be enjoying himself. He moved away to direct the automatic weapons and rifle fire. How long can we hold? Glenda Ruth wondered. 

She let the artillery continue to pound the right-hand assault force for twenty minutes. By then the Highlanders had nearly surrounded her and were ready to assault from the rear. Prayerfully she lifted the radio again. 

"Fire Mission. Give me everything you can on Jack Fire—and for God's sake don't, go over. We're at Jack Six." 

"Flash Jack Five," the voice acknowledged immediately. There was a pause. "On the way." They were the most beautiful words she'd ever heard. 

Now they waited. The Highlanders rose to charge. A wild sound filled the night. My God, Pipes! she thought. But even as the infantry moved the pipes were drowned by the whistle of artillery. Glenda Ruth dove to the bottom of the gully, and saw that the rest of her command had done the same. 

The world erupted in sound. Millions of tiny fragments at enormous velocity filled the night with death. Cautiously she lifted a small periscope to look behind her. 

The Highlander company had dissolved. Shells were falling among dead men, lifting them to be torn apart again and again as the radar-fused shells fell among them. Glenda Ruth swallowed hard and swept the glass around. The left-hand assault company had reformed and were turning back to attack the ridge. "Fire Flash Uncle Four," she said softly. 

"Interrogative." 

"FLASH UNCLE FOUR!" 

"Uncle Four. On the way." As soon as the fire lifted from behind them her men returned to the lip of the gully and resumed firing, but the sounds began to die away. 

"We're down to the ammo in the guns now, Miss," Hruska reported. "May I have your spare magazines?" 

She realized with a sudden start that she had yet to fire a single shot. 

 

The night wore on. Whenever the enemy formed up to assault her position he was cut apart by the merciless artillery. Once she asked for a box barrage all around her gully—by that time the men were down to three shots in each rifle, and the automatic weapons had no ammo at all. The toneless voice simply answered, "On the way." 

An hour before dawn nothing moved on the hill. 

 

VIII 

 

The thin notes of a military trumpet sounded across the barren hills of the Gap. The ridges east of Falkenberg's battle line lay dead, their foliage cut to shreds by shell fragments, the very earth thrown into crazyquilt craters partly burying the dead. A cool wind blew through the Gap, but it couldn't dispell the smells of nitro and death. 

The trumpet sounded again. Falkenberg's glasses showed three unarmed Highlander officers carrying a white flag. An ensign was dispatched to meet them, and the young officer returned with a blindfolded Highlander major. 

"Major MacRae, Fourth Covenant Infantry," the officer introduced himself after the blindfold was removed. He blinked at the bright lights of the bunker. "You'll be Colonel Falkenberg." 

"Yes. What can we do for you, Major?" 

"I've orders to offer a truce for burying the dead. Twenty hours, Colonel, if that's agreeable." 

"No. Four days and nights—a hundred and sixty hours, Major," Falkenberg said. 

"A hundred and sixty hours, Colonel?" The burly Highlander regarded Falkenberg suspiciously. "You'll want that time to complete your defenses." 

"Perhaps. But twenty hours is not enough time to transfer the wounded men. I'll return all of yours—under parole, of course. It's no secret I'm short of medical supplies and they'll receive better care from their own surgeons." 

The Highlander's face showed nothing, but he paused. "You wouldn't tell me how many there be?" He was silent for a moment, then speaking very fast, he said, "The time you set is within my discretion, Colonel." He held out a bulky dispatch case. "My credentials and instructions. 'Twas a bloody battle, Colonel. How many of my laddies have ye killed?" 

Falkenberg and Glenda Ruth glanced at each other. There is a bond between those who have been in combat together, and it can even include those of the other side. The Covenant officer stood impassively, unwilling to say more, but his eyes pleaded with them. 

"We counted four hundred and nine bodies, Major," Glenda Ruth told him gently. "And—" she looked at Falkenberg, who nodded. "We brought in another three hundred and seventy wounded." The usual combat ratio is four men wounded to each killed; nearly sixteen hundred Covenanters must have been taken out of action in the assault. Toward the end the Highlanders were losing men in their efforts to recover their dead and wounded. 

"Less than four hundred," the major said sadly. He stood to rigid attention. "Hae your men search the ground well, Colonel. There's aye more o' my lads out there." He saluted and waited for the blindfold to be fixed again. "I thank you, Colonel." 

As the mercenary officer was led away Falkenberg turned to Glenda Ruth with a wistful smile. "Try to bribe him with money and he'd challenge me, but when I offer him his men back—" He shook his head sadly. 

"Have they really given up?" Glenda Ruth asked. 

"Yes. The truce finishes it. Their only chance was to break through before we brought up more ammunition and reserves, and they know it." 

"But why? In the last revolution they were so terrible, and now—why?" 

"It's the weakness of mercenaries," Falkenberg explained crisply. "The fruits of victory belong to our employers, not us. Friedland can't lose her armor and Covenant can't lose her men, or they've nothing more to sell." 

"But they fought before!" 

"Sure, in a fluid battle of maneuver. A frontal assault is always the most costly kind of battle. They tried to force the passage and we beat them fairly. Honor is satisfied. Now the Confederacy will have to bring up its own Regulars if they want to force a way through the Gap. I don't think they'll squander men like that, and anyway it takes time. Meanwhile we've got to go to Allansport and deal with a crisis." 

"What's wrong there?" she asked. 

"This came in regimental code this morning." He handed her a message flimsy. 

 

"FALKENBERG FROM SVOBODA BREAK BREAK PATRIOT ARMY LOOTING ALLANSPORT STOP REQUEST COURT OF INQUIRY INVESTIGATE POSSIBLE VIOLATIONS OF LAWS OF WAR STOP EXTREMELY INADVISABLE FOR ME TO COMPLY WITH YOUR ORDERS TO JOIN REGIMENT STOP PATRIOT ARMY ACTIONS PROVOKING SABOTAGE AND REVOLT AMONG TOWNSPEOPLE AND MINERS STOP MY SECURITY FORCES MAY BE REQUIRED TO HOLD THE CITY STOP AWAIT YOUR ORDERS STOP RESPECTFULLY ANTON SVOBODA BREAK BREAK MESSAGE ENDS" 

 

She read it twice. "My God, Colonel—what's going on there?" 

"I don't know," he said grimly. "I intend to find out. Will you come with me as a representative of the Patriot Council?" 

"Of course—but shouldn't we send for Howard Bannister? The Council elected him president." 

"If we need him we'll get him. Sergeant Major." 

"Sir!" 

"Put Miss Horton's things on the troop carrier with mine. I'll take the Headquarters Guard platoon to Allansport." 

"Sir. Colonel, you'll want me along." 

"Will I? I suppose so, Sergeant Major. Get your gear aboard." 

"Sir."

"It's probably already there, of course. Let's move out." 

The personnel carrier took them to a small airfield where a jet waited. It was one of forty on the planet, and it would carry a hundred men; but it burned fuel needed for ammunition transport. Until the oil fields around Doak's Ferry could be secured it was fuel they could hardly afford. 

The plane flew across Patriot-held areas, staying well away from the isolated Confederate strongpoints remaining west of the Gap. Aircraft had little chance of surviving in a combat environment when any infantryman could carry target-seeking rockets, while trucks could carry equipment to defeat airborne countermeasures. They crossed the Columbia Valley and turned southwest over the broad forests of Ford Heights Plateau, then west again to avoid Preston Bay where pockets of Confederates remained after the fall of the main fortress. 

"You do the same thing, don't you?" Glenda Ruth said suddenly. "When we assaulted Preston Bay you let my people take the casualties." 

Falkenberg nodded. "For two reasons. I'm as reluctant to lose troops as the Highlanders—and without the Regiment you'd not hold the Patriot areas a thousand hours. You need us as an intact force, not a pile of corpses." 

"Yes." It was true enough, but those were her friends who'd died in the assault. Would the outcome be worth it? Would Falkenberg let it be worth it? 

Captain Svoboda met them at the Allansport field. "Glad to see you, sir. It's pretty bad in town." "Just what happened, Captain?" Svoboda looked critically at Glenda Ruth, but Falkenberg said, "Report." 

"Yes, sir. When the provisional governor arrived I turned over administration of the city as ordered. At that time the peninsula was pacified, largely due to the efforts of Mayor Hastings, who wants to avoid damage to the city. Hastings believes Franklin will send a large army from the home planet, and says he sees no point in getting Loyalists killed and the city burned in resistance that won't change the final outcome anyway." 

"Poor Roger—he always tried to be reasonable, and it never works," Glenda Ruth said. "But Franklin will send troops." 

"Possibly," Falkenberg said. "But it takes time for them to mobilize and organize transport. Continue, Captain Svoboda." 

"Sir. The governor posted a list of proscribed persons whose property was forfeit. If that wasn't enough, he told his troops that if they found any Confederate government property, they could keep half its value. You'll see the results when we get to town, Colonel. There were looting and fires which my security forces and the local fire people only barely managed to control." 

"Oh, Lord," Glenda Ruth murmured. "Why?" 

Svoboda curled his lip. "Looters often do that, Miss Horton. You can't let troops sack a city and not expect damage. The outcome was predictable, Colonel. Many townspeople took to the hills, particularly the miners. They've taken several of the mining towns back." 

Captain Svoboda shrugged helplessly. "The railway is cut. The city itself is secure, but I can't say how long. You only left me a hundred and fifty troops to control eleven thousand people, which I did with hostages. The governor brought another nine hundred men and that's not enough to rule their way. He's asked Preston Bay for more soldiers." 

"Is that where the first group came from?" Glenda Ruth asked. 

"Yes, Miss. A number of them, anyway." 

"Then it's understandable if not excusable, Colonel," she said. "Many ranches on Ford Heights were burned out by Loyalists in the first revolution. I suppose they think they're paying the Loyalists back." 

Falkenberg nodded. "Sergeant Major!" 

"Sir!" 

"Put the Guard in battle armor and combat weapons. Captain, we are going to pay a call on your provisional governor. Alert your men." 

"Colonel!" Glenda Ruth protested. "You—what are you going to do?" 

"Miss Horton, I left an undamaged town, which is now a nest of opposition. I'd like to know why. Let's go, Svoboda." 

 

City Hall stood undamaged among burned-out streets. The town smelled of scorched wood and death, as if there'd been a major battle fought in the downtown area. Falkenberg sat impassive as Glenda Ruth stared unbelievingly at what had been the richest city outside the capital area. 

"I tried, Colonel," Svoboda muttered. He blamed himself anyway. "I'd have had to fire on the Patriots and arrest the governor. You were out of communications and I didn't want to take that responsibility without orders. Should I have, sir?" 

Falkenberg didn't answer. Possible violations of mercenary contracts were always delicate situations. Finally he said, "I can hardly blame you for not wanting to involve the Regiment in war with our sponsors." 

The Patriot irregular guards at City Hall protested as Falkenberg strode briskly toward the governor's office. They tried to bar the way, but when they saw his forty guardsmen in battle armor they moved aside. 

The governor was a broad-shouldered former rancher who'd done well in commodities speculation. He was a skilled salesman, master of the friendly grip on the elbow and pat on the shoulder, the casual words in the right places, but he had no experience in military command. He glanced nervously at Sergeant Major Calvin and the grim-faced guards outside his office as Glenda Ruth introduced Falkenberg. 

"Governor Jack Silana," she said. "The governor was active in the first revolution, and without his financial help we'd never have been able to pay your passage here, Colonel." 

"I see." Falkenberg ignored the governor's offered hand. "Did you authorize more looting, Governor Silana?" he asked. "I see some's still going on." 

"Your mercenaries have all the tax money," Silana protested. He tried to grin. "My troops are being ruined to pay you. Why shouldn't the Fedsymps contribute to the war? Anyway, the real trouble began when a town girl insulted one of my soldiers. He struck her. Some townspeople interfered, and his comrades came to help. A riot started and someone called out the garrison to stop it—" 

"And you lost control," Falkenberg said. 

"The traitors got no more than they deserve anyway! Don't think they didn't loot cities when they won, Colonel. These men have seen ranches burned out, and they know Allansport's a nest of Fedsymp traitors." 

"I see." Falkenberg turned to his provost. "Captain, had you formally relinquished control to Governor Silana before this happened?" 

"Yes, sir. As ordered." 

"Then it's none of the Regiment's concern. Were any of our troops involved?" 

Svoboda nodded unhappily. "I have seven troopers and Sergeant Magee in arrest, sir. I've held summary court on six others myself." 

"What charges are you preferring against Magee?" Falkenberg had personally promoted Magee once. The man had a mean streak, but he was a good soldier. 

"Looting. Drunk on duty. Theft. And conduct prejudicial." 

"And the others?" 

"Three rapes, four grand theft, and one murder, sir. They're being held for a court. I also request an inquiry into my conduct as commander." 

"Granted. Sergeant Major." 

"Sir!" 

"Take custody of the prisoners and convene a General Court. What officers have we for an investigation?" 

"Captain Greenwood's posted for light duty only by the surgeon, sir." 

"Excellent. Have him conduct a formal inquiry into Captain Svoboda's administration of the city." 

"Sir." 

"What will happen to those men?" Glenda Ruth asked. 

"The rapists and murderer will be hanged if convicted. Hard duty for the rest." 

"You'd hang your own men?" she asked. She didn't believe it and her voice showed it. 

"I cannot allow rot in my Regiment," Falkenberg snapped. "In any event the Confederacy will protest this violation of the Laws of War to the CD." 

Governor Silana laughed. "We protested often enough in the last revolution, and nothing came of it. I think we can chance it." 

"Perhaps. I take it you will do nothing about this?" 

"I'll issue orders for the looting to stop." 

"Haven't you done so already?" 

"Well, yes, Colonel—but the men, well, they're about over their mad now, I think." 

"If previous orders haven't stopped it, more won't. You'll have to be prepared to punish violators. Are you?" 

"I'll be damned if I'll hang my own soldiers to protect traitors!" 

"I see. Governor, how do you propose to pacify this area?" 

"I've sent for reinforcements—" 

"Yes. Thank you. If you'll excuse us, Governor, Miss Horton and I have an errand."-He hustled Glenda Ruth out of the office. "Sergeant Major, bring Mayor Hastings and Colonel Ardway to Captain Svoboda's office." 

"They shot Colonel Ardway," Svoboda said. "The mayor's in the city jail." 

"Jail?" Falkenberg muttered. 

"Yes, sir. I had the hostages in the hotel, but Governor Silana—" 

"I see. Carry on, Sergeant Major." 

"Sir!" 

 

"What do you want now, you bloody bastard?" Hastings demanded ten minutes later. The mayor was haggard, with several days' growth of stubble, and his face and hands showed the grime of confinement without proper hygiene facilities. 

"One thing at, a time, Mr. Mayor. Any trouble, Sergeant Major?" 

Calvin grinned. "Not much, sir. The officer didn't want no problems with the Guard—Colonel, they got all them hostages crammed into cells." 

"What have you done with my wife?" Roger Hastings demanded. "I haven't heard anything for days." 

Falkenberg looked inquiringly at Svoboda but got only a headshake. "See to the mayor's family, Sergeant Major. Bring them here. Mr. Hastings, do I understand that you believe this is my doing?" 

"If you hadn't taken this city—" 

"That was a legitimate military operation. Have you charges to bring against my troops?" 

"How would I know?" Hastings felt weak. He hadn't been fed properly for days, and he was sick with worry about his family. As he leaned against the desk he saw Glenda Ruth for the first time. "You too, eh?" 

"It was none of my doing, Roger." He had almost become her father-in-law. She wondered where Lieutenant Harley Hastings was. Although she'd broken the engagement long ago and no longer loved him, their fights had mostly been political, and they were still friends. "I'm sorry." 

"It was your doing, you and the damned rebels. Oh, sure, you don't like burning cities and killing civilians, but it happens all the same—and you started the war. You can't shed the responsibility." 

Falkenberg interrupted him. "Mr. Mayor, we have mutual interests still. This peninsula raises little food, and your people cannot survive without supplies. I'm told over a thousand of your people were killed in the riots, and nearly that many are in the hills. Can you get the automated factories and smelters operating with what's left?" 

"After all this you expect me to—I won't do one damn thing for you, Falkenberg!" 

"I didn't ask if you would, only if it could be done." 

"What difference does it make?" 

"I doubt you want to see the rest of your people starving, Mr. Mayor. Captain, take the mayor to your quarters and get him cleaned up. By the time you've done that, Sergeant Major Calvin will know what happened to his family." Falkenberg nodded dismissal and turned to Glenda Ruth. "Well, Miss Horton? Have you seen enough?" 

"I don't understand." 

"I am requesting you to relieve Silana of his post and return administration of this city to the Regiment. Will you do it?" 

Good Lord! she thought. "I haven't the authority." 

"You've got more influence in the Patriot army than anyone else. The Council may not like it, but they'll take it from you. Meanwhile, I'm sending for the Sappers to rebuild this city and get the foundries going." 

Everything moves so fast. Not even Joshua Horton had made things happen like this man. "Colonel, what is your interest in Allansport?" 

"It's the only industrial area we control. There'll be no more military supplies from off-planet. We hold everything west of the Ternblors. The Matson Valley is rising in support of the revolution and we'll have it soon. We can follow the Matson to Vancouver and take that—and then what?" 

"Why—then we take the capital city! The revolution's over!" 

"No. That was the mistake you made last time. Do you really think your farmers, even with the Forty-second, can move onto level, roaded ground and fight set-piece battles? We've no chance under those conditions." 

"But—" He was right. She'd always known it. When they defeated the Friedlanders at the Gap she'd dared hope, but the capital plains were not Hillyer Gap. "So it's back to attrition." 

Falkenberg nodded. "We do hold all the agricultural areas. The Confederates will begin to feel the pinch soon enough: Meanwhile we chew around the edges. Franklin will have to let go—there's no profit in keeping colonies that cost money. They may try landing armies from the home world, but they'll not take us by surprise and they don't have that big an army. Eventually we'll wear them down." 

It would be a long war after all, and she'd have to he in it, always raising fresh troops as the ranchers began to go home again—it would be tough enough holding what they had when people realized what they were in for. "But how do we pay your troops in a long war?" 

"Perhaps you'll have to do without us." 

"You know we can't. And you've always known it. What do you want?" 

"Right now I want you to relieve Silana. Immediately." 

"What's the hurry? As you say, it's going to be a long war." 

"It'll be longer if more of the city is burned." He almost told her more, and cursed himself for the weakness of temptation. She was only a girl, and he'd known thousands of them since Grace left him all those years ago. The bond of combat wouldn't explain it, he'd known other girls who were competent officers, many of them—so why was he tempted at all? "I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "I must insist. As you say, you can't do without us." 

Glenda Ruth had grown up among politicians, and for four years had been a revolutionary leader herself. She knew Falkenberg's momentary hesitation was important, and that she'd never find out what it meant. 

What was under that mask? Was there a man in there making all those whirlwind decisions? Falkenberg dominated every situation he fell into, and a man like that wanted more than money. The vision of Falkenberg seated at a desk pronouncing dooms on her people haunted her still. 

And yet. There was more. A warrior leader of warriors who had won the adoration of uneducated privates—and men like Jeremy Savage as well. She'd never met anyone like him. 

"I'll do it." She smiled and walked across the room to stand next to him. "I don't know why, but I'll do it. Have you got any friends, John Christian Falkenberg?" 

The question startled him. Automatically he answered. "Command can have no friends, Miss Horton." 

She smiled again. "You have one now. There's a condition to my offer. From now on, you call me Glenda Ruth. Please?" 

A curious smile formed on the soldier's face. He regarded her with amusement, but there was something more as well. "It doesn't work, you know." 

"What doesn't work?" 

"Whatever you're trying. Like me, you've command responsibilities. It's lonely, and you don't like that. The reason command has no friends, Glenda Ruth, is not merely to spare the commander the pain of sending friends to their death. If you haven't learned the rest of it, learn it now, because some day you'll have to betray either your friends or your command, and that's a choice worth avoiding." 

What am I doing? Am I trying to protect the revolution by getting to know him better—or is he right, I've no friends either, and he's the only man I ever met who could be— She let the thought fade out, and laid her hand on his for a brief second. "Let's go tell Governor Silana, John Christian. And let the little girl worry about her own emotions, will you? She knows what she's doing." 

He stood next to her. They were very close and for a moment she thought he intended to kiss her. "No, you don't." 

She wanted to answer, but he was already leaving the room and she had to hurry to catch him. 

 

IX 

 

"I say we only gave the Fedsymp traitors what they deserved!" Jack Silana shouted. There was a mutter of approval from the delegates, and open cheers in the bleachers overlooking the gymnasium floor. "I have great respect for Glenda Ruth, but she is not old Joshua," Silana continued. "Her action in removing me from a post given by President Bannister was without authority. I demand that the Council repudiate it." There was more applause as Silana took his seat. 

Glenda Ruth remained at her seat for a moment. She looked carefully at each of the thirty men and women at the horseshoe table, trying to estimate just how many votes she had. Not a majority, certainly, but perhaps a dozen. She wouldn't have to persuade more than three or four to abandon the Bannister-Silana faction, but what then? The bloc she led was no more solid than Bannister's coalition. Just who would govern the Free States? 

More men were seated on the gymnasium floor beyond the council table. They were witnesses, but their placement at the focus of the Council's attention made it look as if Falkenberg and his impassive officers might be in the dock. Mayor Hastings sat with Falkenberg, and the illusion was heightened by the signs of harsh treatment he'd received. Some of his friends looked even worse. 

Beyond the witnesses the spectators chattered among themselves as if this were a basketball game rather than a solemn meeting of the supreme authority for three quarters of New Washington. A gymnasium didn't seem a very dignified place to meet anyway, but there was no larger hall in Astoria Fortress. 

Finally she stood. "No, I am not my father," she began. "He would have had Jack Silana shot for his actions!" 

"Give it to 'em, Glenda Ruth!" someone shouted from the balcony. 

Howard Bannister looked up it surprise. "We will have order here!" 

"Hump it, you Preston Bay bastard!" the voice replied. The elderly rancher was joined by someone below. "Damn right, Ford Heights don't control the Valley!" There were cheers at that. 

"Order! Order!" Bannister's commands drowned the shouting as the technicians turned up the amplifiers to full volume. "Miss Horton, you have the floor." 

"Thank you. What I was trying to say is that we did not start this revolution to destroy New Washington! We must live with the Loyalists once it is over, and—" 

"Fedsymp! She was engaged to a Feddie soldier!" 

"Shut up and let her talk!" "Order! ORDER!" 

Falkenberg sat motionless as the hall returned to silence and Glenda Ruth tried to speak again. "Bloody noisy lot," Jeremy Savage murmured. 

Falkenberg shrugged. "Victory does that to politicians." 

Glenda Ruth described the conditions she'd seen in Allansport. She told of the burned-out city, hostages herded into jail cells—

"Serves the Fedsymps right!" someone interrupted, but she managed to continue before her supporters could answer. 

"Certainly they are Loyalists. Over a third of the people in the territory we control are. Loyalists are a majority in the capital city. Will it help if we persecute their friends here?" 

"We won't ever take the capital the way we're fighting!" 

"Damn right! Time we moved on the Feddies." 

"Send the mercenaries in there, let 'em earn the taxes we pay!" 

This time Bannister made little effort to control the crowd. They were saying what he had proposed to the Council, and one reason he supported Silana was because he needed the governor's merchant bloc with him on the war issue. After the crowd had shouted enough about renewing the war, Bannister used the microphone to restore order and let Glenda Ruth speak. 

The Council adjourned for the day without deciding anything. Falkenberg waited for Glenda Ruth and walked out with her. "I'm glad we didn't get a vote today," she told him. "I don't think we'd win." 

"Noisy beggars," Major Savage observed again. 

"Democracy at work," Falkenberg said coldly. "What do you need to convince the Council that Silana is unfit as a governor?" 

"That's not the real issue, John," she answered. "It's really the war. No one is satisfied with what's being done." 

"I should have thought we were doing splendidly," Savage retorted. "The last Confederate thrust into the Matson ran into your ambush as planned." 

"Yes, that was brilliant," Glenda Ruth said. 

"Hardly. It was the only possible attack route," Falkenberg answered. "You're very quiet, Mayor Hastings." They had left the gymnasium and were crossing the parade ground to the barracks where the Friedlanders had been quartered. Falkenberg's troops had it now, and they kept the Allansport officials with them. 

"I'm afraid of that vote," Hastings said. "If they send Silana back, we'll lose everything." 

"Then support me!" Falkenberg snapped. "My engineers already have the automated factories and mills in reasonable shape. With some help from you they'd be running again. Then I'd have real arguments against Silana's policies." 

"But that's treason," Hastings protested. "You need the Allansport industry for your war effort. Colonel, it's a hell of a way to thank you for rescuing my family from that butcher, but I can't do it." 

"I suppose you're expecting a miracle to save you?" Falkenberg asked. 

"No. But what happens if you win? How long will you stay on the Ranier Peninsula? Bannister's people will be there one of these days—Colonel, my only chance is for the Confederacy to bring in Franklin troops and crush the lot of you!" 

"And you'll be ruled from Franklin," Glenda Ruth said. "They won't give you as much home rule as you had last time." 

"I know," Roger said miserably. "But what can I do? This revolt ruined our best chance. Franklin might have been reasonable in time—I was going to give good government to everyone. But you finished that." 

"All of Franklin's satraps weren't like you, Roger," Glenda Ruth said, "and don't forget their war policies! They'd have got us sucked into their schemes and eventually we'd have been fighting the CoDominium itself. Colonel Falkenberg can tell you what it's like to be victim of a CD punitive expedition!" 

"Christ, I don't know what to do," Roger said unhappily. 

Falkenberg muttered something which the others didn't catch, then said, "Glenda Ruth, if you will excuse me, Major Savage and I have administrative matters to discuss. I would be pleased if you'd join me for dinner in the officers' mess at 1900 hours." 

"Why—thank you, John. I'd like to, but I must see the other delegates tonight. We may be able to win that vote tomorrow." 

Falkenberg shrugged. "I doubt it. If you can't win it, can you delay it?" 

"For a few days, perhaps—why?" 

"It might help, that's all. If you can't make dinner, the Regiment's officers are entertaining guests in the mess until quite late. Will you join us when you're done politics?" 

" Thank you. Yes, I will." As she crossed the parade ground to her own quarters, she wished she knew what Falkenberg and Savage were discussing. It wouldn't be administration—did it matter what the Council decided? 

She looked forward to seeing John later, and the anticipation made her feel guilt. What is there about the man that does this to me? He's handsome enough, broad shoulders and thoroughly military—nonsense. I am damned if I'll believe in some atavistic compulsion to fall in love with warriors, I don't care what the anthropologists say. So why do I want to be with him? She pushed the thought away. There was something more important to think about. What would Falkenberg do if the Council voted against him? And beyond that, what would she do when he did it? 

 

Falkenberg led Roger Hastings into his office. "Please be seated Mr. Mayor." 

Roger sat uncomfortably. "Look, Colonel, I'd like to help, but—" 

"Mayor Hastings, would the owners of the Allansport industries rather have half of a going concern, or all of nothing?" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"I will guarantee protection of the foundries and smelters in return for a half interest in them." When Hastings looked up in astonishment Falkenberg continued. 

"Why not? Silana will seize them anyway. If my Regiment is part owner, I may be able to stop him." 

"It wouldn't mean anything if I granted it," Hastings protested. "The owners are on Franklin." 

"You are the ranking Confederate official for the entire Ranier Peninsula," Falkenberg said carefully. "Legal or not, I want your signature on this grant." He handed Roger a sheaf of papers. 

Hastings read them carefully. "Colonel, this also confirms a land grant given by the rebel government! I can't do that!" 

"Why not? It's all public land—and that is in your power. The document states that in exchange for protection of lives and property of the citizens of Allansport you are awarding certain lands to my Regiment. It notes that you don't consider a previous grant by the Patriot Government to be valid. There's no question of treason—you do want Allansport protected against Silana, don't you?" 

"Are you offering to double-cross the Patriots?" 

"No. My contract with Bannister specifically states that I cannot be made party to violations of the Laws of War. This document hires me to enforce them in an area already pacified. It doesn't state who might violate them." 

"You're skating on damned thin ice, Colonel. If the Council ever saw this paper they'd hang you for treason!" Roger read it again. "I see no harm in signing, but I tell you in advance the Confederacy won't honor it. If Franklin wins this they'll throw you off this planet—if they don't have you shot." 

"Let me worry about the future, Mr. Mayor. Right now your problem is protecting your people. You can help with that by signing." 

"I doubt it," Hastings said. He reached for a pen. "So long as you know there isn't a shadow of validity to this because I'll be countermanded from the home world—" he scrawled his name and title across the papers and handed them back to Falkenberg. 

Glenda Ruth could hear the Regimental party across the wide parade ground. As she approached with Hiram Black they seemed to be breasting their way upstream through waves of sound, the crash of drums, throbbing, wailing bagpipes, mixed with off-key songs from intoxicated male baritones. 

It was worse inside. As they entered, a flashing saber swept within inches of her face. A junior captain saluted and apologized in a stream of words. "I was showing Oberleutnant Marcks a new parry I learned on Sparta, Miss. Please forgive me?" When she nodded the captain drew his companion to one side and the saber whirled again. 

"That's a Friedland officer—all the Friedlanders are here," Glenda Ruth said. Hiram Black nodded grimly. The captured mercenaries wore dress uniform, green and gold contrasting with the blue and gold of Falkenberg's men. Medals flashed in the bright overhead lights. She looked across the glittering room and saw the colonel at a table on the far side. 

Falkenberg and his companion stood when she reached the table after a perilous journey across the crowded floor. Pipers marched past pouring out more sound. 

Falkenberg's face was flushed and she wondered if he were drunk. "Miss Horton, may I present Major Oscar von Thoma," he said formally. "Major von Thoma commands the Friedland artillery battalion." 

"I—" She didn't know what to say. The Friedlanders were enemies, and Falkenberg was introducing her to the officer as his guest. "My pleasure," she stammered. "And this is Colonel Hiram Black." 

Von Thoma clicked his heels. The men stood stiffly until she was seated next to Falkenberg. That kind of chivalry had almost vanished, but somehow it seemed appropriate here. As the stewards brought glasses von Thoma turned to Falkenberg. "You ask too much," he said. "Besides, you may have fired the lands from the barrels by then." 

"If we have we'll reduce the price," Falkenberg said cheerfully. He noted Glenda Ruth's puzzled expression. "Major von Thoma has asked if he can buy his guns back when the campaign is ended. He doesn't care for my terms." 

 



 

Hiram Black observed drily, "Seems to me the Council's goin' to want a say in fixin' that price, General Falkenberg." 

Falkenberg snorted contemptuously. "No." 

He is drunk, Glenda Ruth thought. It doesn't show much, but—do I know him that well already? 

"Those guns were taken by the Forty-second without Council help. I will see to it that they aren't used against Patriots, and the Council has no further interest in the matter." Falkenberg turned to Glenda Ruth. "Will you win the vote tomorrow?" 

"There won't be a vote tomorrow." 

"So you can't win," Falkenberg muttered. "Expected that. What about the war policy vote?" 

"They'll be debating for the next two days—" she looked nervously at Major von Thoma. "I don't want to be impolite, but should we discuss that with him at the table?" 

"I understand." Von Thoma got unsteadily to his feet. "We will speak of this again, Colonel. It has been my pleasure, Miss Horton. Colonel Black." He bowed stiffly to each and went to the big center table where a number of Friedland officers were drinking with Falkenberg's. 

"John, is this wise?" she asked. "Some of the Councillors are already accusing you of not wanting to fight—" 

"Hell, they're callin' him a traitor," Black interrupted. "Soft on Fedsymps, consortin' with the enemy—they don't even like you recruitin' new men to replace your losses." Black hoisted a glass of whiskey and drained it at one gulp. "I wish some of 'em had been ridin' up the Valley with us! Glenda Ruth, that was some ride. And when Captain Frazer runs out of fuel, Falkenberg tells him, cool as you please, to use bicycles!" Black chuckled in remembrance. 

"I'm serious!" Glenda Ruth protested. "John, Bannister hates you. I think he always has." The stewards brought whiskey for Falkenberg. "Wine or whiskey, Miss?" one asked. 

"Wine—John, please, they're going to order you to attack the capital!" 

"Interesting." His features tightened suddenly and his eyes became alert. Then he relaxed and let the whiskey take effect. "If we obey those orders I'll need Major von Thoma's good offices to get my equipment back. Doesn't Bannister know what will happen if we let them catch us on those open plains?" 

"Howie Bannister knows his way 'round a conspiracy better'n he does a battlefield, General," Black observed. "We give him the Secretary of War title 'cause we thought he'd drive a hard bargain with you, but he's not much on battles." 

"I've noticed," Falkenberg said. He laid his hand on Glenda Ruth's arm and gently stroked it. It was the first time he'd ever touched her, and she sat very still. "This is supposed to be a party," Falkenberg laughed. He looked up and caught the mess president's eye. "Lieutenant, have Pipe Major give us a song!" 

The room was instantly still. Glenda Ruth felt the warmth of Falkenberg's hand. The soft caress promised much more, and she was suddenly glad, but there was a stab of fear as well. He'd spoken so softly, yet all those people had stopped their drinking, the drums ceased, the pipes, everything, at his one careless nod. Power like that was frightening. 

The burly Pipe Major selected a young tenor. One pipe and a snare drum played as he began to sing: "Oh Hae ye nae heard o' the false Sakeld, Hae ye nae heard o' the keen Lord Scroop? For he ha' ta'en the Kinmont Willie, to Haribee for to hang him up . . ." 

"John, please listen," she pleaded. 

"They hae ta'en the news to the Bold Bacleugh ..." 

"John, really." 

"Perhaps you should listen," he said gently. He raised his glass as the young voice rose and the tempo gathered. 

"Oh is my basnet a widow's curch, or my lance the wand o' the willow tree! And is my hand a lady's lily hand, that this English lord should lightly me?" 

 

After the song John forbade talk of politics. They spent the rest of the evening enjoying the party. Both the Friedlanders and Falkenberg's mercenary officers were educated men, and it was very pleasant for Glenda Ruth to have a roomful of warriors competing to please her. They taught her the wild dances of a dozen cultures, and she drank far too much; but all during the party, and even in Falkenberg's quarters later, the old border ballad haunted her. 

When she left Falkenberg's room the next morning she knew she could never warn Bannister, but she had to do something. Finally she persuaded the president to meet John away from the shouting masses of the Council Chamber. 

Bannister came directly to the point. "Colonel, we can't keep a large army in the field indefinitely. Miss Horton's Valley ranchers may be willing to pay these taxes, but most of our people won't." 

"Just what did you expect when you began this?" Falkenberg asked. 

"A long war," Bannister admitted. "But your initial successes raised hopes, and we got a lot of supporters we hadn't expected. They demand an end." 

"Fair-weather soldiers," Falkenberg said. "Common enough. Why did you let them gain so much influence in your Council?" 

"Because there were a lot of them." 

And they all support you for President, Glenda Ruth thought. While my friends and I were out at the front, you were back here organizing the newcomers ... 

"After all, this is a democratic government," Bannister said. 

"And thus quite unable to accomplish anything that takes sustained effort." Falkenberg activated his desk top map. "Look. We have the plains ringed with troops. The irregulars can hold the passes and swamps practically forever. If there is a threatened breakthrough my Regiment stands as a mobile reserve to meet it. They can't get at us—but we can't risk battle in the open with them." 

"So what can we do?" Bannister demanded. "Franklin is sure to send reinforcements. If we wait, we lose." 

"I doubt that. They've no assault boats either—they can't land in any real force on our side of the line, and what good does it do to add to their force in the capital? Eventually we starve them out. Franklin itself must be hurt by the loss of corn shipments." 

"A mercenary paradise," Bannister muttered. "A long war and no fighting—you must attack while we have troops! I tell you, our support is melting away." 

Falkenberg had a vision of armies thrown against the Friedland armor. He made no answer. 

"John, he may be right," Glenda Ruth said. "The Council is going to insist . . ." His look was impassive, and she felt she was losing his respect. But he had to understand, these were only civilians in arms, and they hadn't money to pay them properly, while all the time they were guarding the passes their ranches were going to ruin . . . was Howard Bannister right? Was this a mercenary paradise, and John Falkenberg wasn't even trying? 

The vision she'd had that lonely night at the pass came unwanted again to her mind. She fought it with the memory of the party, and afterwards ... 

"Just what in hell are you waiting on, Colonel Falkenberg?" Bannister demanded. 

Falkenberg said nothing, and Glenda Ruth wanted to cry. 

 

X 

 

The Council had not voted six days later. Glenda Ruth used every parliamentary trick her father had taught her during the meetings, and after they adjourned each day she hustled from delegate to delegate. She made promises she couldn't keep, exploited old friendships and made new ones, and every morning she was sure only that she could delay a little longer. 

She wasn't sure herself why she did it. The war vote was linked to the reappointment of Silana as governor in Allansport, and she did know that the man was incompetent; but mostly, after the debates and political meetings, Falkenberg would come for her, or send a junior officer to escort her to his quarters—and she was glad to go. They seldom spoke of politics, or even talked much at all. It was enough to be with him—but when she left in the mornings, she was afraid again. He'd never promised her anything. 

On the sixth night she joined him for a late supper. When the orderlies had taken the dinner cart she sat moodily at the table. "This is what you meant, isn't it?" she asked. 

"About what?" 

"That I'd have to betray either my friends or my command—but I don't even know if you're my friend. John, what am I going to do?" 

Very gently he laid his hand against her cheek. "You're going to talk sense—and keep them from appointing Silana in Allansport." 

"But what are we waiting for?" 

He shrugged. "Would you rather it came to an open break? There'll be no stopping them if we lose this vote. The mob's demanding your arrest right now—and for the past three days Calvin has had the Headquarters Guard on full alert in case they're fool enough to try it." 

She shuddered, but before she could say more he lifted her gently to her feet and pressed her close to him. Once again her doubts vanished, but she knew they'd be back. Who was she betraying? And for what? 

 

The crowd shouted before she could speak. "Mercenary's whore!" someone called. Her friends answered with more epithets, and it was five minutes before Bannister could restore order. 

How long can I keep it up? At least another day or so, I suppose. Am I his whore? If I'm not, I don't know what I am. He's never told me. She carefully took papers from her briefcase, but there was another interruption. A messenger strode quickly, almost running, across the floor to hand a flimsy to Howard Bannister. The pudgy president glanced at it, then began to read more carefully. 

The hall fell silent as everyone watched Bannister's face. The President showed a gamut of emotions, surprise, bewilderment, then carefully controlled rage. He read the message again and whispered to the messenger, who nodded. Bannister lifted the microphone. 

"Councillors, I have—I suppose it would be simpler to read this to you: 

 

"PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT FREE STATES OF WASHINGTON FROM CDSN CRUISER INTREPID BREAK BREAK WE ARE IN RECEIPT OF DOCUMENTED COMPLAINT FROM CONFEDERATE GOVERNMENT THAT FREE STATES ARE IN VIOLATION OF LAWS OF WAR STOP THIS VESSEL ORDERED TO INVESTIGATE STOP LANDING BOAT ARRIVES ASTORIA SIXTEEN HUNDRED HOURS THIS DAY STOP PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT MUST BE PREPARED TO DISPATCH ARMISTICE COMMISSION TO MEET WITH DELEGATES FROM CONFEDERACY AND CODOMINIUM INVESTIGATING OFFICERS IMMEDIATELY UPON ARRIVAL OF LANDING BOAT STOP COMMANDING OFFICERS ALL MERCENARY FORCES ORDERED TO BE PRESENT TO GIVE EVIDENCE STOP BREAK BREAK JOHN GRANT CAPTAIN CODOMINIUM SPACE NAVY BREAK MESSAGE ENDS" 

 

There was a moment of hushed silence, then the gymnasium erupted in sound. "Investigate us!?" 

"Goddam CD is—" 

"Armistice hell!" 

Falkenberg caught Glenda Ruth's eye. He gestured toward the outside and left the hall. She joined him minutes later. "I really ought to stay, John. We've got to decide what to do." 

"What you decide has just become unimportant," Falkenberg said. "Your Council doesn't hold as many cards as it used to." 

"John, what will they do?" 

He shrugged. "Try to stop the war now that they're here. I suppose it never occurred to Silana that a complaint from the Franklin industrialists is more likely to get CD attention than 'a similar squawk from a bunch of farmers . . ." 

"You expected this! Was this what you were waiting for?" 

"Something like this." 

"You know more than you're saying! John, why won't you tell me? I know you don't love me, but haven't I a right to know?" 

He stood at stiff attention in the bright reddish tinted sunlight for a long time. Finally he said, "Glenda Ruth, nothing's certain in politics and war. I once promised something to a girl, and I couldn't deliver it." 

"But—" 

"We've each command responsibilities—and each other. Will you believe me when I say I've tried to keep you from having to choose—and keep myself from the same choice? You'd better get ready. A CD Court of Inquiry isn't in the habit of waiting for people, and they're due in little more than an hour." 

 

The Court was to be held aboard Intrepid. The four-hundred-meter bottle-shaped warship in orbit around New Washington was the only neutral territory available. When the Patriot delegates were piped aboard, the Marines in the landing dock gave Bannister the exact honors they'd given the Confederate governor general, then hustled the delegation through, gray steel corridors to a petty officer's lounge reserved for them. 

"Governor General Forrest of the Confederacy is already aboard, sir," the Marine sergeant escort told them. "Captain would like to see Colonel Falkenberg in his cabin in ten minutes." 

Bannister looked around the small lounge. "I suppose it's bugged," he said. "Colonel, what happens now?" 

Falkenberg noted the artificially friendly tone Bannister had adopted. "The captain and his advisers will hear each of us privately. If you want witnesses summoned, he'll take care of that. When the Court thinks the time proper, he'll bring both parties together. The CD usually tries to get everyone to agree rather than impose some kind of settlement." 

"And if we can't agree?" 

Falkenberg shrugged. "They might let you fight it out. They might order mercenaries off-planet and impose a blockade. They could even draw up their own settlement and order you to accept it." 

"What happens if we just tell them to go away? What can they do?" Bannister demanded. 

Falkenberg smiled tightly. "They can't conquer the planet because they haven't enough troops to occupy it—but there's not a lot else they can't do, Mr. President. There's enough power aboard this cruiser to make New Washington uninhabitable. You don't have either planetary defenses or a fleet to oppose it. I'd think a long time before I made Captain Grant angry—and on that score, I've been summoned to his cabin." Falkenberg saluted. There was no trace of mockery in the gesture, but Bannister grimaced as the soldier left the lounge. 

 



 

Falkenberg was conducted past Marine sentries to the captain's cabin. John Grant, nephew of Grand Senator Martin Grant and son of the late chief of United States security services, was a tall thin officer with prematurely graying hair that made him look much older than his forty-five standard years. As Falkenberg entered Grant stood and greeted him with genuine warmth. "Good to see you again, John Christian." He extended his hand and looked at his visitor with pleasure. "You're keeping fit enough." 

"So are you, Johnny." Falkenberg's smile was equally genuine. Captain Grant brought his chair from behind the desk and placed it facing Falkenberg's. Unconsciously he dogged it into place. A steward brought brandy and glasses. The marine set up a collapsible table between them, then left. 

"The Grand Admiral all right?" Falkenberg asked. 

"He's hanging on," Grant said. He drew in a deep breath and let it out quickly. "Just barely, though. Despite everything Uncle Martin could do the budget's lower again this year—I can't stay here long, John. Another patrol, and it's getting harder to cover these unauthorized mission is in the log. Have you accomplished your job?" 

"Yeah. Went quicker than I thought— I've spent the last hundred hours wishing we'd arranged to have you arrive sooner." He went to the screen controls on the cabin bulkhead. 

"Got that complaint signaled by a merchantman as we came in—surprised hell out of me. Here, let me get that, the code's a bit tricky." Grant played with the controls until New Washington's inhabited areas showed on the screen. 

"Right." Falkenberg spun dials to show the current military situation on the planet below. "Stalemate as it stands," he said. "But once you order all mercenaries off-planet, we won't have much trouble taking the capital area." 

"Christ, John, I can't do anything as raw as that! If the Friedlanders go, you have to as well. Hell, you've accomplished the mission. The rebels may have a hell of a time taking the capital, but it won't matter who wins. Neither one of them's going to build a fleet for a while after this war. Good work." Falkenberg nodded. "That was Grand Admiral Lermontov's plan. Neutralize this planet with minimum CD involvement and without destroying the industries. Something came up, though, Johnny, and I've decided to change it a bit. The Regiment's staying." 

"But I—" 

"Just hold on," Falkenberg said. He grinned broadly. "I'm not a mercenary under the definition in the Act. We've got a land grant, Johnny—you can leave us here as settlers, not mercenaries." 

"Oh, come off it," Grant said. His voice showed irritation. "A land grant by a rebel government? Look, nobody's going to look too closely at what I do, but Franklin can buy one Grand Senator anyway—I can't risk it, John. Wish I could." 

"What if the grant's confirmed by the local Loyalist government?" Falkenberg asked impishly. 

"Well, then it'd be O.K.— how in hell did you manage that?" Grant was grinning again. "Have a drink and tell me about it." He poured for them. "Where do you fit in?" 

Falkenberg looked up at Grant. 

Slowly his expression changed to something like astonishment. "I've got a girl, Johnny. A soldier's girl, and I'm going to marry her. She's leader of most of the rebel army. There are a lot of politicians around who think they count for something, but—" he made a sharp gesture with his right hand. 

"Marry the queen and become king, uh?" 

"She's more like a princess. Anyway, the Loyalists aren't going to surrender to the rebels without a fight. That complaint they sent was quite genuine. There's no rebel the Loyalists will trust, not even Glenda Ruth." 

Grant nodded. "Enter the soldier who enforced the Laws of War. He's married to the princess and commands the only army around—what's your real stake here, John Christian?" 

Falkenberg shrugged. "Maybe the princess won't leave the kingdom. Anyway. Lermontov's trying to keep the balance of power. God knows, somebody's got to. Fine. The Grand Admiral looks ahead ten years—but I'm not sure the CoDominium's going to last ten years, Johnny." 

Grant slowly nodded agreement. His voice fell and took on a note of awe. "Neither am I. It's worse just in the last few weeks—one thing, the Grand Senators are trying to hold it together, John. They've given up the Russki-American fights to stand together against their own governments. Some of them, anyway." 

"Can they do it?"

"I wish I knew." Grant shook his head in bewilderment. "I always thought the CoDominium was_the one stable thing on old Earth," he said wonderingly. "Now it's all we can do to hold it together—the nationalists keep winning, John, and nobody knows how to stop them." He drained his glass. "The old man will be sorry to lose you:" 

Falkenberg nodded agreement. "But there's worse places to be—do me a favor, Johnny. When you get back to Luna Base, ask the admiral to see that all copies of that New Washington mineral survey are destroyed, will you? I'd hate for somebody to learn there really is something here worth grabbing. If things break up around Earth we won't have any fleet protection at all. On the other hand, if you need a safe base some day, we'll be here. Tell the old man that too." 

"Sure." Grant gave Falkenberg a twisted grin. "King John First—what kind of government will you set up, anyway?" 

"Hadn't thought. Myths change, maybe we're ready for monarchy again. We'll think of something." 

"Yeah." Grant filled their glasses again and stood. "One last, eh? To the CoDominium." 

They drank the toast while below them New Washington turned, and a hundred parsecs away Earth armed for her last battle.