Knox's Irregulars Read online

  "Quite well, actually. He's an excellent teacher, apart from looking fit to eat my liver every time I make a mistake. My scouts have learned a great deal."

  "Brilliant. Speaking of your scouts, what did the Recon and Surveillance team come back with from the spaceport?"

  Pieter brushed aside the bangs of his meticulously sloppy hair and rifled through the scattered reports. "Let's see... Security is tight on the north side out to three kilometers. Static defenses, dogs, patrols, you name it. But Alvarez, our retired pilot? He says given the trajectory of those birds, we can be ten kilometers out and still swat a suborbital."

  "That leaves plenty of room for mischief. I'll send Van Loon up with a team tonight."

  It was great news. The primary means of resupply and reinforcement for the Abkhenazi military was the spaceport. Even this was limited to suborbital flights; the big spacefaring cargo ships were interdicted by an unusual source—the sea.

  By the middle of the twenty-first century, offensive technology had relegated surface fleets to the pages of history, but subsurface ships still played an essential role in modern warfare. The New Genevans deployed scores, and the Abkhenazi hundreds, of unmanned submarines. Each was small, fast-moving, and equipped with every stealth technology in its nation's arsenal. Efficient fusion engines allowed them to stay at sea for years at a time, with automated repair systems keeping the ships on-line.

  These weapons platforms served two chief functions, both of which paradoxically saved lives. The first was the prevention of total war. Both sides knew that unseen ships lurked off their coasts, each carrying an array of strategic weapons they had no hope of stopping. Neither side would ever use them, knowing there would be no winner in such a war, only survivors.

  The other benefit was that the submersibles kept conflicts localized. Combatant nations couldn't draw neighboring planets into the dispute for the mere fact that no one could hope to land on the planet. Any spacecraft bold enough to enter the atmosphere would have little chance against the hypersonic missiles of the subs. The seaborne killers also reduced suborbitals to low-level travel as their only hope of survival, since the subs were primarily equipped to engage high-altitude targets.

  This put the precious, thin-skinned airframes of the suborbitals within striking distance of the Irregulars.

  "We've only got a few surface-to-air missiles," Pieter said, quaffing his brandy.

  "I know. But after we knock down a suborbital or two, they'll switch to ground transport. We'll be able to start hitting fat supply convoys come spring."

  Pieter nodded, staring off into the gloom. The corners of his lips played up, though he was visibly trying to restrain them. "Jeni was in here before you arrived."

  Randal did his best to keep his expression level. "Really."

  "Oh yes. I must say though, Kipper, you never seemed the sort for romancing the kitchen help."

  "It's nothing like that. Besides, you're one to talk."

  "I larked around with the trollops - I didn't pledge my troth to them. Besides, you've seven more years 'til the 'Good and Orderly' statute kicks in. There really are less painful ways of dodging it."

  Twenty-eight, in the lives of young people in New Geneva, was second in importance only to sixteen, when they attained their majority. The law specified that: "Whereas marriage is that founding pillar of good and orderly society, and seeing that young adults unconstrained by family or matrimony are a source of much mischief and public disorder, all citizens of New Geneva shall be married by the day of the twenty-eighth year of their birth, or present just cause to their local magistrate why it be not so. A levee of five pounds will be exacted for each day in violation of this statute."

  "I'm not dodging anything. I care about her. Besides, it's not as if our banns are being proclaimed tomorrow. We just kissed."

  "You care about her," Pieter said flatly. "Isn't that just a bit infra dignitatum? She's damaged goods. Come now, the tramp's already whelped a sprog. What will your Old Man say about this tart?"

  Clicking his teeth together loudly, Randal did a slow five-count. "If you use one more word starting with T to describe her, I'm going to put you in the infirmary. Look in my eyes and tell me if I'm joking."

  Pieter met his eyes, neither of them blinking. Randal could see the gears turning in his head. He was either struggling to find another slur beginning with T, or weighing the odds of taking Randal. Not that it was a real likelihood — Randal had played scrum half on the Saint Athanasius rugby team and the military hadn't exactly dulled his muscle tone.

  Finally Pieter dropped his eyes, smiling sheepishly. "Hey, it's your life. And you'd never take me in a fair fight — it wouldn't be fair chasing me down and beating me senseless while I screamed like a girl."

  Grinning, Randal leaned forward, slugging him hard in the shoulder. "I gotta run, it was good talking with you."

  As he left he heard Pieter mumble, "If you date the help, do you still have to pay them Christmas bonuses?"

  ***

  Van Loon clenched his jaw to keep teeth from chattering, lamenting for the hundredth time that his LANCER suit had recently been deadlined. Its layer of gel-pad insulation would be a godsend in the bitter cold.

  Winter was upon the isthmus in earnest now, and the glare from unbroken drifts of snow was almost blinding in the daylight. An incessant, cutting wind carried the powdery stuff, reducing visibility to virtually nil. In any other year, independent prospectors would be flooding into Providence to await the spring thaw.

  With numb fingers, Van Loon pulled the face mask up just far enough to press a canteen to his lips. He choked down a few sips. They had added foul-tasting minerals to the water to keep it from becoming a solid block of ice. Quickly he yanked the mask back down, his lips already blistering from the chill.

  After tucking away the canteen, he inspected the slender, tubed weapon he held across his lap. The trigger mechanism looked clear of ice. Peering down the tube, he ensured no ice was forming inside, either. After two days of battling frostbite, he didn't want to blow himself up with a barrel obstruction when he finally got a chance to shoot something.

  Only twenty minutes more and Aldrich would be on duty. The snow cave they had hollowed at the base of an ash tree seemed as luxurious as a suite at the Hotel Placide just then.

  Taking up the thermal binoculars, he did another sweep of the northern horizon. They couldn't use the targeting sensor on the launcher to track for suborbitals — any active sensors would alert the Abkhenazi and bring down a world of hurt in minutes. At the same time, migrating snow drifts made the naked eye useless. Instead they were relying on frequent sweeps with the binos to pick up heat signatures. Once they spotted a suborbital, there was a narrow window when they could activate the launcher and fire a shot before the craft was out of range.

  A lot was riding on the operation. Eliminating the suborbital flights could temporarily hamstring the Abkhenazi war machine. With blizzards clogging the mountain passes with unstable mounds of snow, these flights were the enemy's only reliable source of supply.

  Boosting the magnification, he did another hopeful sweep. Still nothing.

  In spite of the cold, he was thankful for the solitude the mission provided. Since coming to the Catacombs there'd been no time to be alone, to collect his thoughts. He realized that it was at least a day since he had thought of his wife or his boy. Soon Tobias would be turning four. Would he recognize this strange, battle-weary man when he came home?

  It was late afternoon, dinnertime. He pictured Hannah teaching Tobias his catechism after the meal. He wished to God the Abkhenazi would go home so he could too. Being apart from Hannah gave him a constant, low-grade sense of loss. They had met for the first time the night his parents arranged an "introduction." Only six years had passed, but already the time before Hannah was blurring around the edges. He had made her promise to remarry if God called him Home during the war, but he knew she never would.

  Something tickled at the back of his m
ind, and he pressed the binos to his goggles again.

  There. A small orange spot rapidly grew larger. Dropping the binos to hang by their strap around his neck, he scrambled to his feet. Though he'd mentally rehearsed the launch prep for two days, his icy fingers felt clumsy as he went through the process of disarming safeties and activating the weapon.

  Hefting the tube to his shoulder, Van Loon pointed the muzzle northward. He pressed the targeting scope to his eye and growled in frustration. Ice covered the tiny screen. He had forgotten to check it.

  The huge airframe of the suborbital passed overhead, trailing a maelstrom of snow and debris in its wake. That close to touchdown it was practically hugging the earth. Struggling to keep upright, Van Loon turned and triggered a launch. He hoped the missile's guidance was smart enough to catch the suborbital even without a lock.

  He need not have worried. Much like the first interstellar ships sent out by Terra, the suborbitals utilized a nuclear pellet fuel system. The heat generated by the propulsion drive was astronomical, a broad and easy path for the heat-seeking warhead to follow.

  In the event of an impending crash, safety cut-outs would engage, killing the engines and preventing a nuclear disaster. A lull in the wind allowed Van Loon to see the final seconds of the doomed craft. Forward thrusters were firing, the control surfaces shifting for a landing, the wheels only meters from the ground as the warhead impacted the tail section.

  A light brighter than a hundred suns flashed, consuming his world and frying his retinas. Searing pain shot through his eyes to his brain. He screamed, clawing vainly at his eyes. An instant later the shock wave struck, tossing him like detritus into a snow bank. He fell into the mercy of unconsciousness.

  ***

  The next thing Van Loon was aware of was a jerky, rocking motion and the disconcerting sensation of moving without touching the ground. His head felt ponderous, like it was full of sand. He tried opening his eyes to see what was happening, but they felt glued shut.

  "He moved a little," said a voice he knew he should recognize.

  "It's about time. We've had to carry him for ten klicks already. Hey, wanna see something amazing? Check out that sunrise."

  "Would you look at that? It's all the dust in the sky from what our Van Loon blew up. Really catches the light."

  "I know. Just wish it would stop falling on us. It smells awful."

  Somewhere in the deep well of his disorientation, Van Loon made a connection. He remembered the suborbital. He'd blown it up. The cut-outs must not have worked. He opened his mouth to warn his teammates about the fallout, to tell them to leave him and find shelter. Only a creaky sound came out.

  The grip around his ankles shifted painfully as his bearers almost dropped him and then he lost his tentative hold on consciousness.

  ***

  Randal and Nabil crawled the last few meters to the crest of the ridge, careful not to skyline themselves. Peering down the slope, Randal was bewildered to find the trees scythed for nearly a kilometer around the spaceport.

  The spaceport itself seemed fuzzy, indistinct. He'd expected to make out buildings at that range. Adjusting the focus, he saw why. There was no more spaceport. A vast, glassy crater sat in place of the runway, the earth fused by unimaginable heat.

  Between the sketchy information Van Loon's teammates were able to deliver and the reports of a bright flash to the east of town, the Irregulars had surmised that the suborbital's dying explosion was of a higher magnitude than expected. But this was... insane.

  "What the deuce? There's nothing left, Nabil. What's your monitor reading?" Standard infantry suits didn't mount Geiger counters; it was one of several advantages to having a scout suit around.

  "The area is hot, hotter than anything we've seen so far. Ariane was right about the radiation sickness."

  Randal winced, feeling as if judgment had just been passed on him. It had been a nuclear accident. Even with terrorism as widespread as it was among the colonies, there were only a handful of accidents on record. Were the Abkhenazi callous enough to skimp on safety equipment? The command team had assumed the safety cut-outs would keep the suborbital from this.

  Nevertheless, it was his order that sent his best friend to fire on it.

  Already three days had passed and Van Loon was still comatose. Twice Ariane had restarted his heart with her medkit's defibrillator. The other two men were wasting away — hair shedding, vomiting uncontrollably.

  "That's a lot of cremated Khlisti down there," Nabil observed with abiding satisfaction in his voice.

  "Yeah." Randal felt too miserable to remind Nabil the Khlisti were also God's creations. "I should have known there was a risk factor. This was wrong."

  "Spare me the sentiment, Knox. The spaceport is going to be unusable for months. They can't land suborbitals without a tower. Don't pretend there's anyone you wouldn't trade to cut their supply lines like this."

  Randal itched to blast Nabil, wanting to mute the insinuating voice that sounded so much like his own conscience. There was a part of him that rejoiced at the scene below. Who knew how many lives at the front would be saved by stemming the flow of enemy men and matériel? He hated himself for being so calculating.

  But who was it that accused him?

  "You know," Randal said quietly, swiveling his helmet to look over the scout. "You hate the Khlisti so much, but I don't see much difference between you."

  "That sounds like something your simpering girlfriend would say. I expect better from you, Corporal."

  "You know, you're right. Actually, I have more respect for the Khlisti. At least their religion encourages them to hurt people. Christ called you to love your enemies, but you're vicious even to fellow Christians. Whatever the Abkhenazi did to you, you'd do back tenfold just to see the expression on their faces. So tell me what moral high ground you stand on when you look down on the rest of us."

  He tensed, not at all sure how the hot-tempered scout would react. A windswept peak overlooking an irradiated disaster area seemed like a lousy place to die.

  Instead the man muttered something profane in his mother tongue, stalking back the way they had come.

  ***

  The next week was a busy one, something Randal was grateful for as it kept him from brooding. Even under martial law information gets around a city and word of the Irregulars' successes at the Janissary school and the spaceport was too big to be quelled. The goodwives of Jeni's Kitchen Klatch helped spread the news as they warned their neighbors to stay indoors during the worst of the fallout. Randal was no longer canvassing for new cells to recruit. Instead, the once reclusive Indies were coming to him. Fortunately there was an established NCO cadre to deal with the influx.

  He'd avoided Ariane since their kiss. With the imminence of Van Loon's death hanging over him he couldn't imagine romancing her, but she was never far from his thoughts. Nor was Van Loon. He'd come out of the coma, but that was the limit of the good news.

  His hair was gone, his skin parchment-thin. The radiation had damaged portions of his brain, making his speech slow and confused. The worst was his eyes — they were scabbed and sealed as if he'd been on the Damascus Road. But Randal was no Ananais, and Jack Van Loon would never see again.

  He paused outside the infirmary, catching Ariane's attention and motioning her out. "How is he?"

  Ariane looked sadly back to the room, pitching her voice low. "It's bad, Randal. His abdomen is hard, like it's filling with fluid. His skin has all kinds of splotches. I'm sure he's hemorrhaging and there's nothing I can do but watch while he unravels..." She held her hands up helplessly, words dying off.

  Randal swallowed, nearly choking on the gob in his throat. "The other two?"

  The girl made an exasperated sound. "They seem to be getting better. But without a dosimeter there's no way to know how much exposure they had." She crouched, cradling her head. "I've got the Irregulars using only ceramic filters for their water. I at least know those will strain fallout. But I had only a twe
nty-minute lecture on nuclear stuff during medic school. This wasn't ever supposed to happen..."

  Randal knelt by her side, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Neither spoke for a long while. He kissed her temple softly and stood, smiling down at her. Just like with Van Loon, here was a person who didn't need him to fill the air with words to understand him. She smiled back, brushing lips to her fingertips and extending them toward him.

  "Hey Jack," he said with unfelt cheeriness as he entered the sick chamber. "You're looking better. Want me to keep reading from Ecclesiastes?"

  A barely perceptible nod came from his friend. Much of what Van Loon said these days was garbled, but on that he'd been adamant. Randal could recognize why. The message that everything in this life is ultimately dust must be a comfort to the dying man. Despite all the white lies people were telling him, he knew his own condition.

  Randal read the short book beginning to end for his friend, pausing a few times when he seemed to drift.

  "Ran—Randal," Van Loon rasped, the first time he'd spoken all day. "I don't want you blaming yourself anymore." He took a breath, his head shifting side to side as he searched for words. "I don't regret."

  It was the most lucid Randal had seen him. He thought of dementia patients sometimes recovering their wits just before they died, their soul collecting itself a final time. It frightened him.

  "I messed up bad, Jack. Please forgive me." He leaned in close to his friend.

  A hand rose, searching the air blindly before settling shakily on Randal's head. "I forgive you," he said, intoning absolution. "It's not bad, you'll see. We're just pilgrims."

  Randal wept unashamedly. "Jack, please don't. You're the only real friend I've got. I can't do all this without you."

  He could hear a little of the old Jack in his voice as his friend chided him gently, "I'm not your strength. God is. Tell my boy. . . you tell him what I did on that hill, hear me?" The hand lifted from Randal's head, trembling. "Letter, to Hannah. In my box."