Treaty of Independence, Spartan: Agreement signed between the Grand Senate of the CoDominium and the Dual Monarchy of Sparta (q.v.). 2062. The Constitutionalist Society's original settlement agreement with the Colonial Bureau of the CoDominium had provided for full internal self-government, but the CoDominium retained jurisdiction over a substantial enclave in Sparta City (q.v.), the orbital transit station Aegis (q.v.), and the refueling facilities around the gas-giant planet Zeus. In addition, during the period of self-government a CoDominium Marine regiment remained in garrison on Sparta and its commander also acted as Governor-General, enforcing the residual powers retained by the Colonial Bureau, mostly having to do with the regulation of involuntary colonist and convict populations.
In line with Grand Senator Fedrokov's "New Look" policy of reducing CoDominium involvement in distant systems where practicable, negotiations began with the Dual Monarchy in 2060. Under the terms of the Treaty, the Royal government became fully responsible for internal order and external defense of the Spartan system, and all restrictions on local military and police forces were removed. The transit station and Zeus-orbit refueling stations were also turned over to the Royal government. However, the treaty also stipulated that certain facilities were to be maintained, at Spartan expense, for the use of the CoDominium authorities and the Fleet; these included docking, fueling and repair functions, and orbit to surface shuttles. Also mandated was the continued receipt of involuntary colonists at a level to be set by the Bureau of Relocation, and for this purpose the CoDominium enclave in Sparta City was retained with a reduced garrison. Penalty provisions in the Treaty authorized direct intervention by the Commandant of the enclave should the Royal government fail to fulfill these obligations. . . .
"Leader selection and development in Western special operations forces began a departure from military norms after a perception of battlefield failure during the Malayan Emergency in the 1950s. The leadership of the SAS, dissatisfied with the unit's performance against communist terrorist bands, determined that a revision of the induction and initial training of SAS personnel was warranted. The program that was developed not only applied to the enlisted ranks; officers were also included in a demanding and wholly new selection process.
"The SAS selection system eliminated candidates who are physically inferior, cannot exhibit sound independent judgment under stress, and lack determination. The system involves several weeks of arduous, individual land navigation treks. The candidates carry heavy rucksacks. Each man plots his own lonely course day after day and cannot rely on others to make the decisions. During the trial, candidates are not encouraged, but instead given every opportunity to drop out of the course, an action that would eliminate their chances to join the unit. Normally only about 15 to 25 percent of candidates are able to complete the course and be selected for membership in the regiment. The qualities of those who pass the trial include a high IQ, superb physical condition, and demonstrated ability to choose wisely despite conditions of great fatigue and mental stress. Only the determined, self-reliant, and quick-witted are selected to serve in the SAS. . . .
—Rod Paschall
LIC 2010: Special Operations and
Unconventional Warfare in the Next Century
(Institute of Land Warfare,
Association of the US Army, 1990)
. . . at the beginning of the war it was easy, we could walk into Kabul and attack where we wanted. We had our bases 2 to 3 kilometers from the enemy positions, even at 6 to 7 kilometers from the biggest Soviet base of Darlahman . . . In 1982, they had a 3-kilometer security belt, but it wasn't very effective . . . eventually we received 207mm rockets with 8-kilometer range, and targets inside the capital were constantly under fire.
. . . eventually, they spread out around their belts of outposts, trying to control an area around the city wide enough to keep it out of range of our rockets. In spite of the three rings of defensive positions they built, we are still regularly slipping through and our operations are still going on . . . Of course we have to be very professional now. All operations have to be carefully planned. We have to have a lot of protection groups because all positions in their area must be engaged . . . routes must be clearly known. Alternative retreat routes have to be studied. We have to take care of mines, booby-trapped illuminating flares that give away our positions, even dogs.
—Mujahideen commander, Afghanistan, 1985
The tiltrotor engine changed pitch. The plane circled the military base before landing.
"Good to see the Battalion again, Prince," Harv Middleton said.
Lysander smiled briefly before turning back to the window "Regiment, now. Or will be when we leave." Below, the First Royals, Prince Royal's Own, was encamped on and around three small hills set in the endless grasslands. They were supposed to be on light rear area security duty, a kind of working rest and recreation. Soft duty, but Lysander was pleased to see that hadn't stopped them from building a fortified camp, with perimeter wire and plowed minefields, and mutually supporting fields of fire. They were doing good work. He was eager to talk with them. There'd been a lot of personnel changes in the First Royals since Lysander had been Major Collins in command of the Scouts in the Dales campaign, but the Regiment would remember him.
"Good campaign, Prince," Harv said.
Reading my thoughts. Yep, we didn't do bad at all. He laughed softly as he caught himself thinking how much simpler his life had been in those days. Simpler, maybe, but it sure got frustrating. It had been a monumental violation of the principle of the unity of command to have the Crown Prince serving as a unit commander, and as soon as he'd proved himself to the men, Owensford had moved him out, back to politics and staff schools and desk work and pretending to coordinate the entire war. It was important work, but Lysander was glad of any excuse to get out among the troops. When this war's over I'll let David run the economy. I'll take military affairs. Maybe even lead the Spartan Legion off-planet.
The hold of the tiltrotor transport plane was crowded with a full platoon of the Life Guards. All Citizens or advanced candidates, they were theoretically under the command of an aristocratic young lieutenant, although Sandy Dunforth was unlikely to contradict Staff Sergeant Harv Middleton in a conflict. When the plane touched down, Harv would be first off, and the Guards would take stations all around the field, as if it were dangerous for the Prince Royal to visit his own regiment.
Hell, I'm safer here than walking the streets of Sparta City, he thought mordantly. The Helot assassination campaign has to be stopped. We can only guard so many of our people. Death of a thousand cuts, but we don't have to die. As Owensford keeps saying, the great thing is not to lose your nerve. They can't win by killing teachers and administrators. Not as long as we're willing to fight back.
The sound of the turbines deepened as the plane came in toward the hilltop and the engine-pods tilted backward. The pilot was an artist; the big craft touched down with scarcely a jar, and the guard platoon fanned out as the rear ramp went down with a sigh of hydraulics. Lysander waited obediently until Harv signed the all-clear. Harv was Lysander's oldest friend, a Phraetrie-brother, but also playmate and companion when they were children. Not that we're all that older now. Middleton knew he wasn't intellectually gifted, and didn't care: Prince Lysander could do the thinking for both of them, about everything but Lysander's safety. When it came to protecting his Prince, Harv's humorlessly intense sense of duty gave him a monomaniacal intelligence.
Lysander blinked at the bright sunshine outside. Sentries and messengers were scurrying all over the field. A group of three officers came out of the Headquarters building to stride briskly toward them. The leader was Major Bennington, a short competent-looking man, Spartan-born, Citizen, an engineer turned soldier. When he saw who had come, he shouted back into the orderly room. Bugle notes sounded, and a company hastily formed as an honor guard.
Bennington saluted. "Highness, they told us to expect visitors, but not who. Apologies—"
"No problem," Lysander said. He returned the salute, then went over to clasp Bennington's hand and clap him across the shoulder. "It's good to see you, Jamie, my Brother," he said formally. He raised his voice, "And all of my Brothers."
"And you, Brother." Bennington was careful to clasp hands with Harv as well. Then he led the way to the waiting troops.
They walked past the leading ranks of the honor guard. Lysander stopped. "Sergeant Ruark. Good job spotting that minefield in the Dales," he said. "Saved my arse."
Ruark grinned, and so did the men around him.
Lysander stopped to talk with several more of the men he recognized, before letting Bennington lead him away.
"It's good to see you, sir," Bennington said. "But you should have told us—"
"Our communications have been leaky, and headquarters thought it better not to say who was coming. Surprising you wasn't the purpose, but no way to avoid it."
"Yes, sir."
"You look tired. So do the troops."
"A bit, sir. It was tough out there. But we've had three weeks to rest up, and it's getting time to go back into the line. But first—With your permission, we'll have 'dining in' at the mess tonight. Not often we have our Battalion Commander with us."
"'Fraid it will have to be 'dining out,'" Lysander said. "Owensford and some of the staff will get in shortly. Please see they're invited—Who's mess president?"
"Captain Hooker, sir. Preston Hooker. Demartus Phraetrie."
"Ah. Platoon commander in heavy weapons support."
"Company commander now. Yes, sir."
"Lots of new faces," Lysander said. "I don't get here often enough. I know I'm only nominal commander but dammit, I ought to know my officers, all of them in this regiment anyway!" He grinned. "Yes, I said regiment. First Royal Cavalry, Prince Royal's Own. You'll get the official word soon enough, along with a promotion."
"Thank you, sir."
"Not much of a surprise, the way we've been adding to your duties, but I thought I should bring The Word myself." He looked around the compound. "Yep. New faces, now, more coming. I've got my work cut out learning them all. I knew all of Falkenberg's people when we had them showing us how. Things working all right without them?"
"Yes, sir. We miss their technical skills sometimes, but this is a Spartan regiment now."
Lysander nodded, pleased at the pride in Bennington's voice. "Right. Sparta needs—our own people. Now show me around. Only you'll have to indicate where we're headed, else Harv will have kittens."
Bennington led the way to the edge of the raw-earth berm. They looked out over the rolling lands below. The 1st Mechanized Battalion, 1st Royal Spartan Infantry, was encamped on three hilltops near the working parties they were helping to guard. The hill camps were leaguered behind earth berms thrown up by 'dozer blade. The troops were in undress uniforms, weapons stacked, a few doing useful things, but most seemed to be just enjoying the mild weather. They were a hundred kilometers inland and north of the Aegean, but the gentle hand of the sea lay across the rolling volcanic hills. This district was warm enough that there were palms in some of the sheltered swales along the Aegean coast.
"Good land," Lysander said.
"Sir." Bennington grinned. "Like most of Sparta. Hasn't quite made up its mind what to be."
"Grassland, I think," Lysander said. He used his binoculars to scan the terrain around them. A few trees, some scrub brush. An occasional live-oak. "Grass. I bet you get some spectacular fires come summer."
"Yes, sir, that we do."
Long rolling hills faded into haze on the distant horizon of a planet larger than Earth. The pale three-quarter sphere of Cytheria sat on the edge of the world. Something moved out at the edge of what he could see. Antelope, he thought, running free in the knee-high mutant kikuyugrass on the hilltops. Bluegrass in the rocky areas, higher growths on the slopes and flats, feathery pampas grass, sloughgrass and big bluestem taller than a man's head. Everything was vivid green from the cool-season rains, starred and woven with cosmos and crimson meadow rose. The scent was as heady as chilled white wine.
"God, I love this planet."
"Yes, sir. Wish everyone did," Jamie answered grimly. "The Prince Royals have been taking it on the chin. We needed the rest. Thanks for getting us this assignment."
Lysander nodded. A rest from the brutal late-winter campaign in the northwest, trying to stop raids out of the Dales. A war of ambushes and burnt-out ranches and endless cold and mud and low-level fear, seasoned with continuous frustration and spiked with moments of raw terror. Always wondering if the next step would be onto a mine, if that clump of trees held a sniper. Too many recruits and never enough time to teach, as the Royal Army doubled and redoubled and units were mined for cadre; newcomers making stupid newbie mistakes, rushing in straight lines towards a noise, showing lights, walking against the skyline. Getting drunk alone in an Olynthos cathouse and ending up knifed in an alley, for that matter.
"The problem is, the rest gives people time to think," Jamie said. "Everyone was feeling fairly good after the Dales campaign; we'd whipped their butts. The men were walking tall. Then we landed on a greased slope and spent the whole winter running as fast as we could to stay in one place."
Lysander ran a hand through his short brown hair. "Don't I know it, Jamie," he said. "Look, that's one reason I came out here to talk to you. We've got to start thinking beyond the next year; beyond settling this war, come to that. We both know the Helots wouldn't last six months without outside help. Hell, without the CoDo shoveling their human refuse on our heads, there wouldn't be any Helots."
"True enough," Jamie Bennington said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Meaning?"
"Meaning we're in this mess because we're helpless. Not just against Earth. Whitlock says the CoDominium won't last five years. Without the Fleet—"
"Yes, sir," Bennington said. "That gets discussed in the mess of a night. Friedland's friendly enough now, but—"
"Or Meiji. Look at what's happening to Thurstone and Diego, and that's with the CoDominium still trying to keep order. Without it there'll be no order at all out here any more."
"And so, Lysander my Brother, you are saying that we should not plan on soft garrison life after we kill off the Helots."
"More than that."
"More than that," Bennington mused. "More than that, my Prince. So. You will want more than just the Spartan Legion ready for expeditionary duty. And we are chosen?"
"I've thought of it. What will the men think? Will they follow orders?"
"Depends on who gives the orders," Bennington said. "They'll follow their Prince. Just about anywhere, after the Dales."
They went back toward the orderly room. Inside were the duty sergeant and two corporals. The sergeant jumped to his feet. "Sir. I'll inform the officer of the day that you're here."
Before he could do that, a corporal came in from the next room. "Sergeant, urgent message from—" He stopped when he saw Lysander and Bennington.
"Carry on," Bennington said.
"Sir. Urgent signal, sir. Message through the Rural Emergency Network from the Halleck ranch at Three Hills. Oldest son and three hands missing. Suspicious tracks. The local constabulary requests assistance."
"Right," Bennington said. "Sergeant, alert the ready team—"
"Halleck?" Lysander asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Damn," Lysander said. "Would that be Aaron Halleck's place?"
"Sergeant?" Bennington asked.
The duty sergeant typed at a console. "Says here Roger Halleck, let's see, Roger Halleck, Divine Twins Phraetrie, son of Senator Aaron Halleck, sir."
"That's torn it," Lysander said. "Senator Halleck's grandson missing. Major, I'd count it a favor if you sent the best you have on this one."
"Right." Bennington conferred with his duty master sergeant. "Who've we got?"
"Sir, the ready platoon is Lieutenant Hartunian's scouts. About as good as we have for this sort of thing."
"Get them moving," Bennington said.
"Sir." The sergeant turned to his console.
"What's the situation out there?" Lysander asked.
Bennington activated the map wall. "We're pretty sure there aren't any big gangs operating around here—they'd love to get at the road to Colchis before we finish it, but there's no cover south of the Drakons." He waved toward the mountain chain to the north and west. "Snow up there. Hard to get through without leaving tracks. But there's canyon country over here. Anything could hide in those caves."
"Hartunian's ready to roll, Major," the sergeant said.
Benington eyed the map. "Lousy roads. Sergeant, tell the chief constable we'll have troops there in about two hours."
"No planes?" Lysander asked.
"Only have three," Bennington said. "All down for maintenance. Try not to let it happen, but sometimes there's no help for it. Sergeant, you'd best have them speed up the work on those ships—"
"Just did, sir. First plane operational in ninety minutes."
"Right."
"I can speed things up," Lysander said. "Sergeant, have Lieutenant Hartunian load his men into my tiltrotor. You sending anything else?"
"Yes, I thought I'd send a troop of light armor," Bennington said. "The exercise won't do them any harm, and Hartunian may need help."
"Whose?"
"'B troop. Captain Reid."
"Thank you. OK, mount them up and get them on the road. Mind if I tag along with Hartunian?"
"Is that wise, Highness?" Bennington asked.
"Given it's the Hallecks, it might be," Lysander said. "We won't get in the way." He went to the orderly room door. "Harv!"
"Prince!"
"Pick a squad of Life Guards and load up. Alert the pilot we're moving out. We're going hunting."
Harv grinned wolfishly. "Yes, sir!"
Three Hills Ranch was typical of the Colchis Gap district, a fairly small operation. Not in area—the Hallecks had patented better than two thousand hectares—but in scale. Most of the rangeland the armored column passed through might never have known the hand of man. Except that the grass itself, the grazing herds of buffalo and impala, mustang and onanger and pronghorn, even the wild geese migrating north in sky-darkening flocks, were all of them a sign of man's presence; Spartan evolution hadn't produced much native life on land. Closer to the ranch headquarters they saw black-coated Angus cattle and shaggy brown beefalo under the guard of mounted vaqueros, and around the ranch house itself waving strips of contour-ploughed cropland. Not much, because there would be little market here; what cash-money this spread saw would be from herds driven down to the slaughterhouse in Colchis town on the coast, or wool hauled there by bullock wagons.
The Senator's younger son, setting up on his own. And looking to make good as a farmer. There were new fields under cultivation, sprouts showing green against the raw-red soil. Beets and sunflowers and soyabeans, some cotton; powered vehicles on Sparta ran mostly on alcohol or vegetable oil, and the new road would provide a market. The ranch house was single-story and not particularly large, with whitewashed walls of rammed earth, roofed in home-made tile that supported a satellite dish. Half a dozen vaquero cottages nearby, and a bunkhouse; much like the rancher's dwelling except for size. Outbuildings were scattered, sheds, barns, a set of windmill generators and a stock-dam fringed with willows. Modest but carefully cultivated flower beds and lawns and tall trees surrounded the houses to make an oasis in the huge rippling landscape.
Exactly what we're trying to build here. Frontier people. The frontier of humanity, and the bastards won't let us alone. It's not Spartans who are destroying us.
A windsock marked a landing area near the house, an open pasture beyond a row of big gum-trees. Better than thirty people and two light armor vehicles awaited them there, which was quick work in a district as spread-out as this. Most were in militia cammo uniforms and body armor. A couple of the vaqueros were in their normal leathers, probably non-Citizens, but their rifles were as much a part of their working equipment as their clothes, and they looked just as determined as the rest. Off to one side a pack of hounds that looked to be more than slightly mixed with gray wolf lay in disciplined silence.
"Junior Lieutenant Cantor, 22nd Divine Twins Brotherhood Battalion," a man introduced himself, as Lysander swung himself down from the tiltrotor. Nobody jumped distances like that in Sparta's gravity. Except new chums, who wondered why they ripped tendons and sprained ankles. "Brother Halleck," the militia officer went on, introducing the owner. Roger Halleck was a stocky rancher in his forties with gray in his shag-cut brown hair, a finger missing from one hand and a bulldog determination to his square face. A lot like the Senator, actually, Lysander thought.
"This is Lieutenant George Hartunian, Prince Royal's Own," Lysander said. "And Lieutenant Sanford Dunforth, Life Guards."
"Highness—" Cantor began.
"And for the moment I'm Colonel Collins, First Royals Regimental Commander," Lysander said. "No point in getting too formal, Citizens. Now what's our situation?"
"My boy Demetrios was up north about six klicks, scoutin' for a new watering dam. Had a handset, reported all well at sundown yesterday. Nothing this morning, so I sent my top hand out. Miguel?"
"Don Roger," the vaquero said, nodding with dignified formality. "My Prince, I took young Saunders with me"—a big-boned blond youth, another of the vaqueros, shuffled his feet in acknowledgment—"to the stream where the camp was. We found a campfire still warm with unburied embers; this Don Halleck's son would never do, he was well taught. Also we found this."
He handed a small object to Lysander. A spent cartridge case, standard 10mm magnum caliber. He brought it to his nose. Recent. Sparta City Armory marks on the base, which meant little . . .
"See," the vaquero said. "The firing pin imprint is a very little low and to the right of center? The young Don Demitrios's gun, veridad. Also we find this, a thousand meters north." A ring. Lysander's brows rose.
"It's his," Halleck said "His grandmother left it to him."
"Twenty horses, maybe more, came during the night from the south," Miguel continued. "Before the rain, because the marks were almost washed out. Only in the mud by the stream we see them, you understand." Lysander nodded. The grasses which had claimed this countryside so quickly after the terraforming package made a deep tough sod. "They paused, then went on with the young Don's horses as well."
Lysander started to speak, then stopped and turned to Lieutenant Hartunian.
George Hartunian straightened. "Not much doubt about what happened," he said. "Lieutenant Cantor, what do we know of enemy activity in the area?"
"Sporadic. Largest group we've seen was a dozen, on horseback. This group may be twice that size, but they shouldn't be any problem, no heavy weapons. Except—"
Except they've got the squire's son as hostage, Lysander thought.
"Anyway," Cantor said, "we had instructions to call on the regulars, and since I don't have any experience with hostage situations—"
"Neither do I," Hartunian said. He hesitated, clearly looking to Lysander for orders he wasn't going to get. "A troop of scouts will be here in an hour," Hartunian said. "Send them after us. I guess it's time for the rest of us to move out." He looked to the dogs. "Is that pack well trained?"
"They can follow a scent," Halleck said. He looked at Hartunian and shrugged, a gesture that clearly said he didn't believe that waiting for the regular troops had been worth the delay. "Colonel, the best thing will be for us to get on the trail, and you look with that tiltrotor. That way we just might find something."
Lysander glanced up at the sky. "Three hours of daylight, maybe a bit more." He projected a map onto the ground. "Dunforth, you'll take the tiltrotor. Cover this area, but stay away from the canyons. I don't have to tell you the whole purpose of this just could be to lure that plane into range of a missile."
"Sir. Shouldn't I stay with you?"
"No. Now get looking, and be careful. Keep Regiment up to date on your location." Lysander looked to the available transportation. Two Cataphracts, and three von Alderheim 6x6 trucks. Little enough. "There'll be a light armor cavalry column coming up before dark. Send it after us. And I'm ordering Regiment to send another cavalry troop."
"Fuel," Hartunian said.
"I'll authorize air resupply," Lysander said. Expensive. Damned expensive, but Senator Halleck's always been one of the team, and by God we can take care of our own. "Now load up."
"I'll be going," Halleck said quietly.
"And me." A girl not more than twenty. Freckles, strawberry blond hair and furious blue eyes, in militia gear. "I trained those dogs, as much as Demetrios did, Dad. I ride and shoot as well as he does, and he's my brother."
Lysander raised his brows at the rancher. Unwillingly, he nodded. "Lydia is the best hunter on the place, next her brother. My family," he added, nodding to two mutinous looking boys of about fourteen, "runs to twins. And no, Isagoras and Alexias, you're not going."
"Load up, then," Lysander said. He waited until the Hallecks were in the trucks. "You go with her," he told Middleton. "Hartunian will take the lead Cataphract. I'll be in the other one until Reid's troop catches up."
Harv started to protest and thought better of it. "Yes, Prince."
"Missile attack. Taking evasive action."
Lysander noted the tiltrotor's location on his map projection. "OK, you've found them," Lysander said. "Now get well back, refuel, and stand by. If they had one missile they'll have more."
"Yes, sir."
"OK, driver, push it," Lysander said. They rolled onward.
"Bloody hell," Lysander cursed quietly. "There goes the chance of using the IV sensors."
The hills to the west were aflame for better than a kilometer to either side; there was a strong easterly wind, enough to move the fire briskly despite the early season. Tall grass will burn even when green, if the fire is set with torches and fanned by moving air. The higher partial pressure of oxygen on Sparta made it even more deadly than prairie fires on earth. . . . Haze and smoke and the pale-yellow disk of the setting sun made it difficult to see the mountain peaks beyond.
"Halt." The burbling roar of the diesels sank to a low murmur, no louder than the roar of the fire approaching them from a kilometer away. He could smell the thick acrid smoke of it, over the hot metal of engines and the overwhelming sweetness of crushed grass.
The tracking force was advancing along a front as wide as the fire itself, Cataphracts in the lead with the trucks a hundred meters behind. He swiveled to look around; nothing, except the clouds of birds fleeing the grassfire, and the twin-track marks the armored vehicles had beaten through the turf. They were tending south of west, up into the higher country on the fringes of the Drakons. Not the nine- and ten-thousand meter peaks of the midrange, but still more than high enough to carry eternal snow and glaciers. The hills here were already several hundred meters higher than the Gap country proper, unclaimed land, with tendrils of brush and forest down the valleys. Perceptibly colder than the Halleck ranch, too.
"Regimental command push," he said.
"Bennington here," the Major replied after a second.
"Collins here. We're getting closer, but they set a grassfire. We'll have to stop and find the scent again on the other side."
"They were laying mines back here," Bennington said grimly. "New wrinkle. Anti-vehicle mines in the track, as a decoy; laser trigger rigged to a directional mine off to the side. Lost two of the sappers."
"Goddam!" Lysander said.
"My sentiments exactly. Not to mention a farm wagon further down the road, another fatal. Get them, sir."
"Will do, Jamie."
The 6x6 jounced up, with the dogs and the Hallecks. The trucks had excellent cross-country mobility, Charbonneau-thread tires gripped like fingers, but the ride was rougher than the broad treads and hydrogas suspension units of the Cataphracts. Miguel, the chief vaquero, swung down, wiping at his soot-streaked face with a bandanna.
"The hijo de puta picked the spot for their fire well, my Prince," he said. "No deep valleys, the ground only rolls. More broken country beyond. Someone among them must be himself an llanero, a plainsman. Donna Halleck says that the forest begins only ten kilometers beyond, very bad country with many ravines and cliffs; oaks, firs, deodar cedar and rhododendron thicket."
"I've hunted leopard there," she said from the bed of the truck; her father and Harv were beside her. "Tricky. Pumice soil and rock, pretty steep. Landslide country in the rains."
We'll never get them in there, Lysander thought. His speed advantage would be lost; ambush country, and easier for the bandits to disperse. Roger Halleck was looking grimly furious.
"Backburn?" the vaquero asked, looking at the approaching fire.
"Nix that!" Lydia Halleck said. "Too long—look, we can run it, if a couple of your lobsters go through first right ahead of us. We'll only be in the flame-front for a second or so and nothing flammable will be touching the ground. Hose everything down, and the dogs will be able to take it."
Hell of a risk, he thought. Then: God damn it, these are my people, I'm not going to let their kinfolk be dragged off by those scum.
"OK," he said. "Citizen, Miss Halleck, if you'd prefer to ride in one of the Cataphracts?" A family muleishness confronted him.
"The dogs need me to stay with them," the girl said. Well, not much chance her father won't stay with her, Lysander thought.
"Sir?" Harv, standing next to the Hallecks. "Sir, if we cover everything with a couple of ground sheets and soak it, we'll be safe enough under."
Lysander blinked in surprise; he had expected another polite-but-firm request that Harv ride in the Cataphract with him. "Carry on, Sergeant." He looked west. An hour of daylight left. "Let's move."
Lysander buttoned the hatch down and looked at the wall of smoke ahead of them; it towered into the sky, and the flames were twice the height from the ground to the top of the Cataphract's turret.
"Goose it!" he said.
The armored vehicle gathered speed with a pitch-and-yaw motion like a boat beating through a medium sea. For a moment there was darkness shot with red outside the vision-blocks, and his ears popped as the overpressure NCB system pumped air into the fighting compartment through its filters. Then they were through, on a broad expanse of smoldering black stubble kilometers wide. The truck was through as well, covered in soot and smut but still functioning; as he watched the tarpaulin over the rear deck was thrown back, revealing grinning humans and hysterical dogs pulling against the short-staple leashes tied down to the railings.
The column pulled to a halt on the unburned grass, the familiar shhhh against the hulls replacing the popping crunches of the burn. The Hallecks and Miguel moved efficiently to quiet the dogs; the cycle-mounted scouts pulled up from their wide circle west of the fire. As steady in their way as the humans, the dogs soon settled down and began to cast about, tails high and wagging furiously; they had been following the on-again, off-again trail all day, and they were getting into the spirit of it. Well-trained pack, too, Lysander thought, studying the ground ahead. No yelling off after something else once they've been given a scent.
The land was rising again, the ridges getting sharper. It suddenly occurred to him how different it would have looked in his grandfather's time. Olive green pseudomoss then, and scraggly patches of semibamboo, scarred by the erosion the introduced vegetation resisted so much better. Grass and brush all mixed in, just beginning its long march to conquest. One long human lifetime, an eyeblink in the history of a world. Even the insects and bacteria beneath his feet were of strains that had come here less than a century ago.
"Message, sir," his driver called.
Lysander frowned. "Right." He retrieved the head-set from the Cataphract. "Collins here."
"Suggestion."
Owensford's voice. And he's not using honorifics because there's only one person out here he would say "sir" to. OK he thinks someone is listening. Someone with our scrambler codes . . . "Yes, sir," Lysander said.
"Wait five right where you are."
"Dammit, they'll get away—"
"Strong suggestion."
Lysander started to protest and thought better of it. "Roger."
The tiltrotor landed on a level spot close by. A dozen men, led by Owensford in combat dress. "Like to talk to you for a minute, sir," Owensford said.
Lysander let himself be led away from the others. "What's all this, General?"
"Highness, do you know what the hell you're doing?" Owensford demanded.
"I'm chasing down those scumbags—"
"No, sir, you're making certain that the Senator's grandson is killed, and probably endangering everyone around you," Owensford said evenly. "You don't think this was a coincidence, do you?"
"Eh?"
"Senator's grandson gets kidnapped. Not killed, kidnapped, just before the Crown Prince visits the regiment assigned to security duty here. The Prince Royal's Own regiment to be exact. May be coincidence, sir, but more likely leaks in the Palace."
"To what end?'
"God knows," Owensford said. "But they run to complicated plans. My guess is they hoped you'd be sucked into this operation."
"Am I that easy to predict?"
"Senator's grandson, kidnapped in your regiment's sector, plain trail to follow." Owensford shrugged.
"I see. So now what?"
"They plan a surprise for us, I think," Owensford said. "Just maybe we have one for them." He turned to the group who had come with him in the tiltrotor. "Miscowsky."
"Sir." Sergeant Taras Hamilton Miscowsky was a stocky man, dark, clearly of Eurasian descent.
"Got a reading?" Owensford asked.
"I think so, sir." Miscowsky squatted and used his helmet to project a map onto the ground in front of him. "They'll be here, in canyon country. They'll have split up into smaller groups, but there'll always be an obvious main body—"
"It's been that way so far," Lysander said.
"Yes, sir. Point being to get you to divvy up your force while they lead you by the nose." The stocky sergeant grinned slightly.
"By the nose," Lysander said. "You mean the dogs."
"Yes, sir."
"So what do we do now?"
"Chase 'em," Miscowsky said. "The trail will divide somewhere about here, where you'll be just about at dark. You'll want to follow on after dark. Don't. Instead, make camp, but not on the main trail, off here somewhere, like maybe you're going to follow the wrong branch. Keep a good watch, and I mean good, sir."
"You expect them to attack us? In the dark?" Lysander asked.
"Be more likely if you was to camp in the obvious place," Miscowsky said. "But they might try and hit you anyway. And they'll sure as hell send out scout parties to look you over. What they'll want is to get you chasing them out there in the canyons and woods in the dark. I don't suppose I have to tell you, don't do it?"
"I see. And then?"
Miscowsky shook his head. "Then comes the fun part," he said, but his grim look denied the words.
The dogs barked in glee, then milled in confusion, casting along two diverging trails. Lysander cursed loudly. "Bring us up level, Delman," he said to the driver.
The Cataphract quivered and flowed forward with an oilbath smoothness; there were grinding sounds as the tungsten cleats of the treads met an occasional piece of pumice rock.
"Six horses that way, sir." Sergeant Salcion pointed to the left, southwest over a small hillock. "The rest went straight west."
Lydia Halleck squinted into the vanishing sun. "West over that ridge is the beginning of canyon country," she said.
Miguel had been quartering the ground while the others spoke, occasionally stopping and going to one knee to part the grass gently with his hands; it was over a meter high here, new green shoots mingling with winter's pale gold straw.
"Here," he said, indicating a spot of bare wet reddish earth between two tufts. "This horse is shod by the Three Hills farrier; the others have machine-made shoes." He looked up at Lysander. "Ours are hand-hammered from bar stock," he explained.
"It's nearly dark," Lysander said.
"We're gaining on them!" Lydia said. "Come on!"
"Right," Hartunian said. "Mount up!"
"No, I think we make camp," Lysander said. "Cancel that order." An hour ago I'd have been right with them. There's so damned much I don't know, and it can get my people killed. He looked at his map. The trail divided almost precisely where Miscowsky had said it would.
Lysander pointed southwest. "We'll camp on that hill. Full perimeter. Get set up while there's still daylight."
"But we can catch them!" Lydia shouted. "No, you can stay if you're scared of the dark, but some of us aren't! Who's with me?"
Peter Owensford had been talking quietly with the girl's father. Halleck said, "Not enough, Lydia. Not enough."
"But—" She stood defiantly. "Miguel—"
The vaquero looked to the rancher.
"You'll stay here, and that's an order," Lysander said. "Owensford!"
"Sir!"
"See that they stay and camp is made."
"Sir."
"Damned cowards," Lydia said. "I never thought I would have to say that about a Prince of Sparta. Coward."
The hilltop was largely dirt, with some boulders, which they used as part of the fortifications Owensford insisted on. Foxholes, trenches, ramparts; tanks hull down in earth bunkers, truck revetted. The work wasn't finished until well after dark. Finally Owensford was satisfied. "Larraby, you'll take first perimeter patrol."
"Sir."
"Highness, Mr. and Miss Halleck, there'll be hot tea in the command bunker. Care to join me?"
The command post was more trench than bunker. Owensford's orderly handed out mugs of tea and left them.
"This is crazy," Lydia said. "We could have caught up to them—"
"Very likely," Owensford said carefully. "At least they certainly hoped we would."
"They—" Lydia's eyes widened. "Oh." She turned to Lysander. "Highness—I'm sorry, really, I didn't—"
"It's all right," Lysander said.
"Better than all right," Owensford said. "I just hope they were listening."
"Real earful," Halleck said. He put his arm around his daughter. "Somebody had to protest," he said. "Knew you would, and it came more natural if you didn't know."
"I should have guessed." She blushed. For just a moment, embarrassment overcame her frantic concern for her twin. Embarrassment, and something else, fear of a loss greater even than her brother.
"I didn't," Lysander said. "It took General Owensford to show me. And that sergeant. Mis—"
"Miscowsky," Owensford said. "Havenite. Grew up thinking like a bandit." He glanced at his watch. "Another couple of hours, if they're coming."
"Coming. You expect them to attack us here, then?" Lydia asked.
"Ma'am—"
"I'm Lydia, General Owensford," the girl said quietly.
"Lydia. You put it stronger than we would. We don't exactly expect an attack, but if they have the strength we think they do, it's one of their options. We need to be prepared, that's all. My guess is they won't. We built a fortified camp in a place they didn't expect, and one thing we've learned about the Helots, they don't do much on the spur of the moment. They like complicated plans, and they won't have time to make one up. Hartunian will see to the watch. I think what we should do is try to get some sleep."
"That won't be easy," Lydia said.
"For any of us," Lysander said. "Good tea. Now I think I'll take General Owensford's advice."
It was dark outside. Two hours until moonrise. Lysander paused to let his eyes adjust, and heard steps behind him.
"Not much chance for my boy, is there?" Halleck asked.
"I don't know," Lysander said.
"Probably dead already."
"Maybe not," Lysander said. "Miscowsky thinks they'll use him as bait."
"For what? For you," Halleck said. "God damn—Highness—Oh God damn it. Well, we can't let them do that."
"Prince."
Lysander woke from a pleasant dream. Dawn light, hardly bright enough for shadows. "Right, Harv."
"General Owensford's respects, he's in the command bunker with coffee," Harv said.
"Right." Lysander pulled himself out of the bedroll and pulled on his boots. Owensford and Lydia Halleck were seated close together in the command bunker. Lysander wondered if she'd been there all night. He got his coffee and sat across from them.
"Good morning," Owensford said. "There are over a hundred of them. With heavy weapons. Big mortars. Rocket launchers. Maybe more. Well dug in, too."
"Christ."
"I'd have walked right into that," Lydia said. "Worse, I'd have taken you—"
"The point is, it didn't happen," Owensford said. "Anyway, now we know what we're facing, the news gets better."
"Such as?"
"They have three live prisoners. The bad news is they know how many we are, and they didn't run away," Owensford said.
"How do we know all this?" Lysander asked.
Owensford grinned. "They're not the only ones who can sneak around in the dark."
"Miscowsky."
"Followed their scouts back, of course. This is an eyeball report."
"That is good news. All right, what next?"
Owensford looked pointedly at Lydia Halleck. She stood. "Whatever happens, thanks, Highness," she said. "And—thank you, Peter, for explaining things."
"Wish I had more hope for you," Owensford said.
"Yeah." She climbed out of the bunker, leaving Lysander and Owensford alone.
"You asked what's next," Owensford said. "I can make a suggestion."
"Make it."
"Order me to handle the situation, then get the hell out of here."
Lysander frowned. "I can't do that—"
"With all respect, Highness, you should do that. There's a lot at stake here—"
"Damned right—"
"A lot more than Senator Halleck's grandson," Owensford said. "Look, this situation is all fucked up. We're out here in the middle of nowhere. We have one ace in the hole, but otherwise we're outnumbered and outgunned. If we bring up reinforcements they'll kill their hostages and run for it into the badlands. If we go straight in they'll likely cream us. The whole deal is tailor made for a defeat, and the biggest disaster of all will be that the Prince Royal was in charge and fucked it up! Bluntly, Highness, losing that kid will be bad enough, but it'll be a lot worse if it makes you look incompetent. Which, by the way, I'm pretty sure was one object of this exercise in the first place."
"How the hell could they have known I'd be here? For long enough that they brought in all that stuff?" Lysander demanded. "Damn it, I didn't know myself I was coming until last week!"
"Yes, sir, but your favorite regiment was here long enough," Owensford said. "The original objective would have been giving the Prince Royals a bloody nose. For that matter, it was predictable you'd visit when the Battalion was upgraded to Regiment. Then they heard when you were coming, and that made it all the better."
"And I took the bait," Lysander said. "I see. But damn it, Peter, I can't just abandon that boy! His grandfather is one of my father's oldest friends! Even if he wasn't—they're my people! This, this ranch, this is what Sparta is for! I can't let them take risks I won't take—"
"You can, and you will," Owensford said. "Remember the enemy's objectives, Highness. They can't defeat us as long as we keep our nerve, but if they can make the people lose confidence in the government, they're halfway to winning. And for all practical purposes right now, you are the government. You're already the good luck charm for half the soldiers in the Royal Army. That doesn't mean you can't risk getting killed, but it sure as Hell does mean you've got to be careful not to look like a fool."
"I'll work on that." Lysander said. "Now show me the situation, and tell me what you think we should do."
"That still doesn't work," Owensford said. "I may have it all wrong too." He grinned suddenly. "Hell, neither one of us should be here, come to that. This is a job for a captain." He projected a map on the bunker wall. "An expendable captain."
Lysander didn't answer. After a while Owensford said, "Here's the situation. They're dug in, here, a natural redoubt, with heavy weapons. They won't want us to get close enough to spot for artillery and missile fire, so they'll try to intercept us well short of their main area, probably here. They don't know Miscowsky's group has them under surveillance, which means we can pound them with Thoth missiles."
"We didn't bring any Thoth missiles—"
"I took the liberty of using Legion communications to send for the SAS support unit," Owensford said. "I didn't have them report to anyone in the Royals, but they're out there. Anything Miscowsky can see, we can hit without warning."
"You suspect a traitor in the Royals?"
"I suspect leaks in the Royals," Owensford said. "Not necessarily a traitor, but that's possible. Those Thoths are our main advantage, and we'll want to use them properly."
"So we can kill them any time," Lysander said. "If we don't mind killing the hostages too."
"Something like that."
"What happens if we wait for the rest of the regiment to come up?"
"Don't know," Owensford said. "But they have to worry about that. My guess is if they get worried enough, they kill the hostages and scatter."
"But if they think they have a chance of getting me—"
"They'd take risks for that," Owensford agreed. "But they're not fools. They aren't going to wait until you have a whole battalion of armor here—"
"What if we don't bring the reinforcements here at all," Lysander said. "Suppose I send the regiment around behind them, here. The main body won't be in position until dark, but a scout platoon can be in position a lot earlier than that."
"And then we go in after them?"
"More or less," Lysander said.
"They outnumber us, you know," Owensford said.
"Sure. But it's what you'd do if I weren't here, right?"
Owensford shrugged. "It's what I'd expect from my hypothetical captain who ought to be in charge of this cockamamie deal."
"Then we'll do that."
"An expendable captain."
"So we're not expendable," Lysander said. "We'll be careful. Now let's go."
Nearly dusk. Peter Owensford used the command tank's optics to peer into the shadows ahead. Christ, here I am acting like a captain again. He grinned slightly. At least by God I've got someone to fight. Not just chasing ghosts. And someone to fight for . . .
Just ahead would be the enemy's redoubt. This would be the tricky part. "They see you coming," Miscowsky's voice said in his ear. "They're all spread out, waiting."
"Command push," Peter said. "Halt the column."
The two lead Cataphracts slowed, stopped. The infantry fanned out to both sides. Ahead lay a four-hundred-meter escarpment topped with a dense stand of trees, the sun already lost behind it. Somewhere along the base of that escarpment, no more than two kilometers away, was the rebel ambush. Minutes ticked by.
"They're getting nervous," Miscowsky said. The signal was faint but clear. "Timing's gonna be tricky."
"The great thing," Peter said aloud, "is not to lose your nerve." His driver grinned slightly, then nodded. Five long minutes . . .
"Here he comes," the driver said. He opened a port in the armor of the tank, and brought in a thin cable which he handed to the communications sergeant who sat in the loader's seat.
After a moment the sergeant handed Peter a headset and microphone. "Secure communications, sir."
"Right. Thank you. Report by sections. Report."
"Section One set and loaded, sir."
"Section Two in place and loaded sir."
"Armor units ready."
That would be Lysander, of course. If I let that kid kill himself, John Christian will have my hide. Christ, he's all that's holding this goddam planet together, and here we are playing company commander. "OK. Here's the situation. They don't suspect the SAS team is observing them. They know we're here, and they're stirring around, wondering why we've halted. It's a war of nerves."
"It will be dark soon enough." A female voice. I might have known Lydia would be talking for her father.
"We'll give Mobile One a little more time," Peter said.
The wait seemed endless.
"There's a group moving out. Riflemen. One grenade launcher. I count eleven, moving toward your position," Miscowsky said. "Bearing one niner five at four five zero meters relative my position. They're moving out now. Call it vector niner zero."
Somewhere out there, miles away near the horizon, a Legion SAS signal section had sent up a balloon and tethered it in line of sight to Miscowsky. It would be able to receive Miscowsky's narrow beam signals without any possibility of interception. Of course signals the other way to Miscowsky wouldn't be secure at all, but there was nothing they could do about that. Owensford plotted the enemy patrol's position on his helmet display. "Visitors coming," Peter said. "Call it a dozen, moving due east. If they continue on course that will put them right on top of Section One."
"Scout Section Four moving to intercept."
"Roger that."
"Getting dark, General."
"Scout Four here. We see them. They'll have Section One in sight in six minutes."
And here we go. Peter punched in codes. "Thoth Daddy, fire mission, roll four anti-personnel," he said. "I say again, Thoth Daddy, roll four anti-personnel. Relay to SAS One they're on the way." Then without waiting for acknowledgment he changed channels. "Scout Four. Intercept and destroy that patrol, Scout Four."
"Will intercept and destroy. Scout Four out."
"Sections One and Two load concussion. Armor units stand by."
"Acknowledge four birds on the way," Miscowsky said. "They do not appear to have intercepted the alert to me, I say again they are not reacting. Thoth Daddy, give me four more, anti-personnel, I say again, four anti-personnel."
"Thoth Daddy here. On the way."
Timers on Peter's console began their countdowns, flickering sets of red numbers.
From ahead and to the left came a sudden stammer of rifles and machine guns, then grenades. Contact. "Execute alpha," Peter said. "I say again, all units, execute plan alpha, I say again, execute plan alpha. Move out!"
The Cataphract engines were loud in the falling dusk. There were more shots and the bright flash of grenades to Peter's left. Then the Cataphracts moved over the ridge.
"Incoming!"
Something burst overhead. Cluster bombs rained around Owensford's position. Any uncovered infantry out there would be in trouble. More bombs fell around them. They're using their big stuff. Good.
Peter stared at his console. There was nothing he could do now, it was up to the computers. Green lights flickered. Antennas they'd spent the afternoon putting out a klick to each side backtracked the enemy's artillery shells. Pulses came into the command computers. Analysis. A light flashed. Locked on. More lights, as information went at the speed of light from the command unit to the tiltrotor aircraft twenty kilometers away, then to Miscowsky and his missile control unit . . .
"Got it," Miscowsky said. "Four missiles acquired. Guidance set. Locked."
There were flashes from over the ridge. Four missiles, lofted from the aircraft named Thoth Daddy, landed among the enemy's heavy weapons with an accuracy better than one meter.
"Thoth Daddy, give me more," Miscowsky said. "Anti-personnel, stream it."
"On the way."
"Rebel commander, Rebel commander," Owensford said.
He looked down at the screen, split to offer him views from any of the vehicles. Not much to be seen. The Helots were well dug in among their boulders. No artillery left. No perimeter guards left. Not likely to have much communications, they may not hear me. Peter touched his console to change communication channels. "Move in fast."
"Sergeant Cheung, Spartan People's Liberation Army," a voice replied. "You got something to say, Cit?"
Sergeant. "Let me speak to your commanding officer."
"That's me, Cit." A laugh, that might or might not have been cut off short. "What you want?"
Officer dead, or escaped? No time for that— "You're surrounded, your heavy weapons are destroyed, and we have you located. Surrender now and you'll be treated as prisoners of war."
"Well, well, Baby Prince—"
"This is Colonel Ford," Peter said.
"Where's the Prince?"
"Not here." Jesus Alana says keep them talking. About anything. "Do you want to talk to the Prince? He's coming, he'll be here shortly."
A nasty laugh. "No need to wait for him. We got the rancher's boy," the rebel said. "Give us twenty hours headstart, and we'll let him go."
"Twenty hours? That's too much," Owensford said.
"How long?"
"Well, not twenty hours—"
"Hell, you don't mean to give us nothing," the rebel said.
"Not true," Owensford said. "Give up and you'll be well treated. Killing hostages gets you hanged."
"Yeah, well, worth just one try," the guerrilla said. "OK, we're sending him out."
Like Hell you are. Owensford switched to his command channel. "All units, stand by. Section One. Section Two. Make ready. SAS One, stand ready." Back to the enemy leader. "Don't do anything rash."
"Me? Rash? Nah, never." A figure was pushed out from behind one of the jagged boulders. Owensford upped the gain to maximum, and the face sprang out at him. Lydia's face, in a square-jawed male version. The hair was darker blond, plastered to the side of his head with blood, and one eye was swollen almost shut. The young man limped; his hands were bound behind him . . . with barbed wire.
"You see him, Cit?"
"Execute, all units execute," Peter said. Then to the rebel, "No, see what?"
Demetrios Halleck was walking upright, with care, watching where he put his feet but moving as quickly as he could.
"You see him?"
"This is Crown Prince Lysander Collins. Stand by, Sergeant Cheung, I'm coming up to talk to you."
"What the hell?" the rebel said. "Where? Show yourself—"
"I'm right over here, Sergeant."
"I don't see you—"
Mortar shells fell around the rebel position. The blast of a concussion grenade knocked the Halleck boy flat. Something moved in the shadows near where he fell.
"Pour it on," Peter ordered. "Go for it, all units, go for it, go, go, go!"
"Go," Lysander said. The sweat under his armor turned suddenly cold and gelid; like those nightmares where you waded through thick dank air, unable to turn and see what chased you.
Breaching charges flew through the air like blurring snakes; the soft whumps of their explosions across the minefield were lost in the hammer of the 76s and the thumping crash from the rocket howitzers. The Cataphract was tossing as they drove forward; out of the corner of one eye he saw the 6x6 truck pacing them. That wasn't supposed to happen. They reached the rocks, and armored men leaped out among the rebels. Another flurry of shots. Then silence.
So quickly, Lysander thought. Silence fell, broken only by the crackling of small grass fires and shouts, and moans from the wounded. Lysander halted the Cataphract and climbed down slowly. Bodies everywhere.
"Hey Sarge, maps!" someone shouted.
"Don't touch nothing! It'll keep till morning."
Shots and a grenade off to the left. Someone was running, and half a dozen Royals led by a sergeant gave chase.
Lysander carefully made his way back down the hill, out to where medics hovered over two figures.
Two. "Status?" Lysander asked.
"This one's stable," the medic said. He indicated the Halleck boy. "Broken ribs, but I think nothing internal. The other one will make it if we get him in the tanks in time, but it's going to be close."
"Who is he?" Lysander asked.
"Corporal Owassee," a voice said from behind him. Lysander turned to see Sergeant Miscowsky. "Mine. He put his flak jacket over the kid, and they shot the shit out of him. Sir."
Lysander touched his helmet. "Dustoff. Get in here now."
"Already on the way," the aerial dispatcher said.
"Sergeant, whatever that man wants, we'll get it for him," Lysander said. Rewards and risks. Statecraft. "We owe him. I owe him, big."
"Yes, sir."
"Now. Where's the rebel leader?" Lysander asked.
Sergeant Miscowsky jerked his head toward the row of boulders behind him. "We got him. Up yonder. Sir."
Lysander started forward, but Miscowsky was in the way and didn't move. For a moment Lysander stared at the man. "Let me by."
"Well, sir—"
"Prince," Owensford said from behind him.
"What's going on?" Lysander demanded.
"Maybe you don't want to know," Owensford said. "You can go, Sergeant."
"Sir." Miscowsky ambled off into the dark.
"All right," Lysander said quietly. "Just what is this? Mutiny?"
"Of course not, Your Highness. You're in total command here. Anything you order will be done. Any question you ask will be answered," Owensford said.
"The Laws of War—"
"A good officer knows what to see, and what not to see," Owensford said. "And the Laws of War apply to prisoners of war. A status this group lost when they refused to surrender while holding hostages."
"General—"
"Yes, your Highness?"
Lysander looked up the hill in time to see Miscowsky vanish behind one of the boulders. "I hate this war," Lysander said.
"We all do."
"Will they learn anything?"
"If there's anything to learn. The important thing now is to keep him drugged so he can't suicide before the Alanas can talk to him."
"He called himself Sergeant Cheung—"
"Yeah. We think he's a bit more than that," Owensford said. "You may not know it, but Croser has a bodyguard named Lee Cheung." Peter shrugged. "It's not an uncommon name, but Lee Cheung is known to have a brother who's a major in their equivalent of special forces. At the least we may find out how they knew you were out here, traitor or leak. You'll notice he did ask for you."
"I want to see that man," Lysander said. "I want to talk to him, find out why—"
"In due time, Highness." Owensford flashed a light on the trail. "Nothing more to do here, and the medics would rather we were out of the way. The cleared path is marked, stay on it and be careful."
The sounds of battle had faded, and now came the inevitable aftermath, the smells of blood and death, screams and groans of wounded and dying. "They've done this to us," Lysander said. "We can't even walk in the forest without worrying about mines. The mines will be here for fifty years, a danger to foresters, children, animals—they don't care. General, what do civilized people owe to barbarians?"
"Sir?"
"We owe them nothing, General Owensford. We owe them nothing."