Knox's Irregulars

  KNOX'S IRREGULARS

  by J. Wesley Bush

  Dedication

  To my lovely wife, Alexandra. After all these years, we still follow rainbows in each other's eyes.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE.. 5

  CHAPTER 1. 10

  CHAPTER 2. 22

  CHAPTER 3. 33

  CHAPTER 4. 47

  CHAPTER 5. 60

  CHAPTER 6. 76

  CHAPTER 7. 91

  CHAPTER 8. 108

  CHAPTER 9. 122

  CHAPTER 10. 146

  CHAPTER 11. 170

  CHAPTER 12. 193

  CHAPTER 13. 211

  CHAPTER 14. 225

  CHAPTER 15. 240

  CHAPTER 16. 255

  CHAPTER 17. 269

  CHAPTER 18. 285

  CHAPTER 19. 306

  CHAPTER 20. 310

  CHAPTER 21. 318

  EPILOGUE.. 343

  Glossary of Terms. 348

  About the Author 350

  Connect With Me Online. 350

  PROLOGUE

  A tyrant. . .is always stirring up some war or other,

  in order that the people may require a leader.

  —Plato

  "Follow me, child, and do nothing until I signal."

  Lieutenant Nabil al-Hise dipped the waist of his battle armor in a quick bow. "Tak tochno, Colonel Tsepashin," he acknowledged, following his master into the Hall of the Evolved. Two ceremonial guardsmen parted to admit them through an archway covered in mosaic. They entered a grand, hemispherical chamber. Overhead curved an azure dome nearly a hundred meters in height. Row upon row of People's Deputies flanked either side of the granite central aisle. The aisle led to the room's focal point, a circle of black marble centered on a representation of the sacred birch tree. Beyond the circle sat the raised dais of the parliamentary leadership.

  Three hundred perfectly smooth heads turned on al-Hise and Tsepashin as they entered, three hundred searching looks following their steps. The weight of their looks was nothing to the young Lieutenant, not compared to the awe he felt for his master.

  A patrician man stood in the circle, gripping a sheaf of birch branches — the Speaker's Rod. Al-Hise itched to tear him apart, especially as the Speaker jabbed the rod in their direction and called out, "You were summoned here to account for your failure to quell the disturbances. It was at your insistence that the Fist of the Mogdukh was chosen over the Scourge for this task. Many questioned the wisdom of that decision. Now you bring a weapon of war into the Hall of the Evolved? Explain yourself, Colonel Tsepashin!"

  Al-Hise halted at the edge of the circle. Tsepashin coolly crossed the line, motioning for the Speaker's Rod and the right to speak. It was slapped into his hand and he turned to face the crowd. For a long moment he was silent, his pale, almost colorless blue eyes boring into the audience. In formal robes, with his hairless scalp and chalk-white skin he resembled the vampyri of al-Hise's childhood nightmares.

  At last Tsepashin spoke in a wintry voice. "Food riots. Infidel proselytizers. Civil disturbances and political dissent. The People's Deputies tasked me to combat these problems. Now I am called to account for the apparent lack of progress, and this I will do." Tsepashin beat a rhythm in his palm with the rod. "Parliament simply did not recognize the extent of the corruption — how deeply our land is riddled with foreign devils, each an enemy of the Mogdukh. Worse, many of our own citizens sympathize with these infidels.

  "Now the foreigners' cleverness will be turned back against them. Despite the Hegemony's arms embargo, we have purchased a weapon from off-planet. A weapon which will bring terror to our enemies!" A hand motioned to where al-Hise stood in his battle armor.

  At the recognition from his master, the young man felt his heart leap with the giddiness usually associated with first love. He turned to face the audience, pleased to see the intimidating effect of the powered armor.

  It would be hard not to be impressed when faced with three meters of chitinous black armor at once simian and insect-like; hunched, its powerful arms bulging with an electric chain gun and an EMP projector; shoulders humped by the covers to twin anti-vehicular missile pods; the legs misshapen by jump-jet nacelles. A beetle-like helmet sat atop the suit, a death's head emblazoned on the faceplate. Al-Hise grinned as he watched the decadent politicians through the visor, drinking in their nervous looks.

  Silence stretched for several moments as attention refocused on Tsepashin. He seemed to have turned inward, eyes on the floor, expression thoughtful. "The infidel is a constant threat to our way of life. However, there is something more vile than an infidel — the heretic. Infidels stand outside the gates of the citadel. Heretics live within, ceaselessly undermining the foundations of the holy city. The heretic is the greatest threat to our Khlisti faith."

  He began to pace slowly, fingers drumming the Speaker's Rod. "The Prophet, Master Nazarbayev, gave us a parable. All of you know it. There once was a legitimate son to a man of great wealth. Upon his father's death, the son was shocked to find his birthright stolen. Through trickery an illegitimate son was made heir and the true son his servant. For many years the true son remained meek in his servitude. He bided his time and plotted revenge.

  "Finally came the night of the long knives and his enemies lay dead at his feet. The true son reclaimed what was rightfully his."

  His words trailed off in a fervent whisper. Then slowly, deliberately, he spoke into the silent chamber. "The night of the long knives is come."

  Al-Hise's external mics caught the sound of scuffling coming from the vestibule, followed by a scream which everyone could hear. One of the ceremonial guardsmen pitched face-first into the room and lay unmoving. Something appeared in Tsepashin's hand and he turned and flung it at the Speaker. The man fell dead, the hilt of a dagger sprouting from his chest.

  That was al-Hise's signal. Engaging jump-jets, he arced his way across the domed chamber, landing nimbly astride the only exit. Black uniformed troops poured in past him, each wearing a beret with death's head crest and carrying a viciously curved dagger. Al-Hise turned to face the room, prepared to cut off any escape, but he fired on no one. Tsepashin had been very clear; the cancer of these heretics must be excised by ritually-cleansed blades.

  His presence wasn't necessary. The politicians sat on their granite benches, meek as doves.

  As a bloc, the Purist faction rose from their position in the back corner of the Hall. From under their seats they pulled daggers identical to those the soldiers carried. Tsepashin watched, nodding his approval. His face seemed to glow with a holy light as he savored the moment. Raising high his blade, Tsepashin's voice reverberated through the Hall once more. "Night has fallen!"

  "All power to the Mogdukh!" Soldiers and armed Purists fell upon the Moderates. At the end, the unarmed politicians fought back, al-Hise noted with grudging respect. At least they were faithful to the Khlisti way in death, if not in life.

  A handful did break and run for the door. Al-Hise readied himself to repel these weak ones, but two of their colleagues, eyes wild and robes soaked in gore, cut them down before they came close.

  The slaughter seemed to last forever, the voices of the dying echoing in the perfect acoustics of the Hall. Al-Hise's initial elation faded and he cut the audio in his suit, silencing the animalistic screams of both victim and killer.

  At last the deed was done. A trideo camera team was ushered into the room and a bloody Tsepashin reentered the Speaker's Circle. "The People's Deputies are disbanded as of this moment. All constitutional authority is now held by the Guardian Council. Public gatherings and independent press organs are banned for the duration of the emergency. All foreigners and infidels will turn themselves in for deportation to the ghetto in Samar
kand."

  Tsepashin thrust a hand into the pocket of his robes; it emerged clutching a spherical device. The soldiers and Purists began filing out of the building. He tossed the incendiary grenade onto the Speaker's dais. In a flash, thermite set the hardwood blazing.

  His features hellishly backlit by the flames, Tsepashin stared into the camera. "The ashes of the Hall of the Evolved will be the only monument to the weakness and heresy of this age. A new era begins today—an era of strength and purity. The disgraces of the past are cleansed in fire."

  ***

  CHAPTER 1

  Diplomacy is the art of saying 'Nice doggie'

  until you can find a rock.

  - Will Rogers

  The desultory rain fit the mood of the soldiers, distant thunder suiting the uncertainty of the day. The regiment was formed up on the landing pad of New Geneva's primary spaceport, just outside the capital city of Shiloh. Ferrocrete stretched for kilometers in every direction, broken only by an occasional shuttle seen dimly through the drizzle.

  To their front sat a slab-sided troop carrier of the Terran Hegemony and two flagpoles: one bearing the tricot flag of New Geneva, the other the concentric rings of the Hegemony.

  "Open ranks... march!" the adjutant called out.

  The rows of soldiers opened up for inspection.

  "Dress right... dress!"

  Platoon Sergeants sternly inspected their men. They were not going to look like a bunch of ragbags in front of the Hegemony troops, certainly not on a day like today.

  "Ready... front! Close ranks... march!" The rows reformed into their neat phalanxes.

  "Present... Arms!"

  From behind the assembly strode a severe-looking man in an equally severely-cut suit. Returning the regimental commander's salute, he dismissed him to the rear of the formation, taking the commander's place at the front.

  Soon afterward came the sound of many men marching as one, the left step punctuated with a near-stomp as was customary with the Hegemony military. In time a troop of them appeared, their cadence carrying lustily to the New Genevans.

  "Well goodbye to a quiet posting;

  it's off to Antares with us.

  We're likely to get shot there;

  but at least they'll let us cuss.

  Genevans are a good lot;

  so sad to leave 'em in a lurch.

  But the girls won't even kiss us,

  unless we go to church..."

  The third stanza was cut short as the Hegemony troops halted and faced toward the Genevans. With measured step a color guard emerged, marching to the flagpoles.

  The severe-looking man watched them, keeping his expression carefully level for the sake of the trideodrones broadcasting the scene to virtually every household in the country. Inside, however, his heart was sick as he watched the color guard inexorably lower the last Hegemony flag on the planet.

  Certainly he had lodged complaints against the Hegemony fleet and granted, in election years he'd fanned discontent against the "Earthers" for votes. Every Founder's Party politician did that. But none except a handful of ultranationalists actually wanted them gone. New Geneva had flourished under the benign neglect of the Hegemony. In its sixty-year history it had grown from an impoverished colony of religious expatriates to an economic and technological marvel all out of proportion to its tiny population.

  Now that era was ending. No more would orbiting battle cruisers shelter New Geneva from its much larger and increasingly hostile neighbor to the north. The man dreaded what would happen now that the threat of bombardment from space no longer restrained his nation's enemies.

  The color guard unfastened the flag from its keepers, folding and presenting it solemnly to the man. With a final salute, they returned to their positions. At a command from their adjutant, the Hegemony unit filed aboard the troop carrier silently. In moments the New Genevans were left completely alone.

  Facing about, the man managed a confident smile, not only for the soldiers but for the three million sets of eyes watching him via live tridfeed as well.

  "At long last our dream of a free and independent nation is realized!" he called out, the soldiers dutifully answering with a hurrah. "We look forward to peaceful and prosperous co-existence with our friends to the north, Abkhenazia. Let today mark the beginning of a new era of mutual respect and cooperation between our two peoples."

  Acknowledging the soldier's cheers, he turned and walked briskly to a hovering staff car. Not until safely hidden from sight did he slouch down in the seat, letting out a defeated sigh.

  And so independence came to New Geneva.

  ***

  "I gotta admit, Corporal, your father almost sounds like he means that rubbish when he says it. He's good."

  Corporal Randal Knox laughed, glancing up for a moment from the small tridscreen his fire team was clustered around. "My old man can be plenty persuasive when he wants to be. He almost talked me into going into politics, and that's saying something." He looked back in time to see his father, the Prime Minister, disappear into a staff car.

  Snapping shut the tridscreen, Randal tossed it into his pressure tent. "Show's over, back to work. Queue up for inspection, you lot," he said, allowing some informality since their bivouac site was well away from any higher-ups.

  First in line was Kimathi, his assistant team leader. Randal craned his neck to inspect the tall East African. The man had nearly ended up in the foot infantry. The LANCER suit - Light Armored Night-optimized Combat Rig - he wore was the largest the army's supplier made. Opening a panel on the armored suit's breastplate, Randal surveyed the faintly-glowing monitors concealed beneath. "That right leg still catching?"

  "Fixed." Kimathi rarely used two words when one would do.

  "Good." Randal moved on to Rogers, the team's heavy weapons specialist. He glanced down the tube of the massive railgun affixed to the left shoulder of Rogers' suit. It was locked in the "safe" position, rotated to rest diagonally across the back of the unit. Once assured it was free of obstruction, Randal knelt to check the housings on the outside of each leg. Inside the housings were lodged metal spikes which shot deep into the ground each time the railgun was triggered — the only way to keep the suit upright given the devastating recoil of the gauss effect.

  Next he checked over the caseless light machine gun bulking the right forearm of Rogers' suit. Each suit variant had the LMG in common, though the shoulder weapon was modular and issued in one of three types: railgun, autocannon, or autoloading mortar. The cannons were vicious against light armor, the mortar good for indirect fire and the railgunner could wreak havoc from great distances.

  He heard the soft chime of his comset.

  "All leaders down to fire team level are to report to the Tactical Operations Center for briefing," came the grating voice of the Battalion XO, Major Tarrington.

  With a sigh of resignation, Randal began the long trot to the TOC, calling back to Kimathi, "Run 'em through battle drills until I get back. Practice reacting to artillery fire. Something tells me that'll be useful soon."

  ***

  Bivouacked farthest out, Randal was one of the last to arrive. The others from the armored infantry company were already unsuited, the LANCER shells standing empty in rows outside the command tent. He shed his armor and ducked inside.

  Self-inflating chairs were set out, turning the TOC into a makeshift briefing room. The officers and higher noncoms took the chairs, so Randal was left milling in the back with the rest of the low end of the military food chain.

  A large someone jostled him from behind. He turned to give whomever it was a dirty look, but found the grinning mug of his best friend, Jack Van Loon. Returning the smile, he punched Van Loon in the stomach hard enough to steal wind. "They'll let anyone in this place these days..."

  Van Loon laughed weakly, rubbing at his belly. It had been getting softer since his wedding four years past. "Speaking of which, Major Tarrington's arrived," he said, nodding toward the front of the room, just loud
ly enough to be heard.

  Randal's expression soured. "Tarrington? That little martinet... It's people like him that give anal-retention a bad name."

  That, of course, was the moment the crowd chose to quiet for the Major. The pinch-faced officer cleared his throat and spoke in a tone that promised many, many hours of extra-duty for Randal. "If the junior enlisted are quite finished, I'll begin the briefing."

  Sensing more than hearing Van Loon's chuckle behind him, Randal sent back a vicious elbow to his already smarting midsection, nodding contritely to the Major. Tarrington flicked on a holoprojector and cued up a topographical map of the area. Military symbols covered it, showing what Randal recognized as friendly troops and known or suspected Abkhenazi force dispositions.

  The two sides faced one another across a shallow valley paralleling the Abkhenazi-New Geneva border, each positioned on high points along either side. The New Genevan contingent was split in two by Winfield Pass, the pass being the main reason any troops were committed to the barren stretch of terrain at all. It was the smaller of the two passages through the rocky isthmus separating New Geneva from Abkhenazia. The bulk of the New Geneva Defense Force was committed to the other one, seventy kilometers to the west.

  "High Command has raised our alert level to a four." Tarrington paused to let surprised mutters die down before continuing. "Keep your men in chemical gear any time they're out of their pressure tents. Tighten up your noise and light discipline and when your men go to relieve themselves, make sure they go in teams of two."