Knox's Irregulars Read online

  It wasn't the time to point any of that out. "I'm sorry, Pieter. Was there time for many civilians to escape?"

  "No. Once the Abkhenazi saw the army was bugging out, they flew in those gray-suited troops in the shuttles and blocked off all the southern routes."

  "We're all that's left from the battalion they posted at Winfield Pass. They've ordered us to link up with the main body. Do you have any idea how far to the south they ended up?"

  Pieter shook his head, putting up a hand to forestall him. "Don't. Most of my cellmates have families. We sent three runners south to find a path to evacuate the women and children. They watched the front lines for a week trying to find a weakness. Only one of them made it back. The NGDF is dug in down at the Firth of Farel. The isthmus is so constricted there the Abbies are practically standing shoulder-to-shoulder. My men got hit before they were even four kilometers from the line. You'll be signing your people's death certificates."

  As usual, Van Loon saw and heard more than he seemed to. Over a shoulder he interjected quietly, "He has a point, Randal."

  It was true. Slipping past enemy defenses around Providence was one thing, but Farel would be a nightmare. The NGDF had been wise to pick it — the natural bottleneck there made it easy to defend.

  "Come wait this out with us." Pieter flashed his most agreeable smile.

  Randal returned the smile, but behind his eyes he thought, I'm not waiting anything out. And neither are you if I can help it. "That sounds like the best plan, but I'll have to talk to my people."

  "Give me a jingle when you know the answer."

  "Oh, Pieter, I meant to ask — how are your parents weathering things? I hope they weren't caught in the chateau?" Randal loved the Haelbroecks like they were his own parents.

  "Thankfully, no. They were vacationing down at the Cape when the balloon went up. What in the world does that mean anyway? Balloons don't seem terribly militant to me."

  "Back on Terra, balloons were used for observation and signaling in warfare. Listen, glad to hear your folks are safe. I'm sure my father has put yours to work with the war effort."

  Pieter laughed. "No doubt some juicy sinecure — Undersecretary for Mobilization of Cocktail Parties or something. The beasts have taken over the chateau, though. Staff cars are constantly flying in and out. I pity them if they break any of mother's china. She's vengeful."

  ***

  "I know this isn't exactly SOP," Randal told his people after explaining their predicament. "But I think we should vote on staying in Providence or continuing south."

  "I'm staying," Ariane said abruptly, drawing surprised looks. "I want to stay."

  "Staying here is the wisest option. We won't do our country any good getting butchered crossing the front lines," Van Loon weighed in.

  "You don't get to make that call, Van Loon. None of you do." Pyatt stood from his crouch, looking ready for trouble. "Our orders say to link up with the main body. All of you should stow your cowardice and get moving."

  That brought Van Loon to his feet. "You see, that's the problem with you First Century types, Pyatt. Always the letter of the law with you, forget the spirit. Try using some sodding common sense for a change. You might just live longer." He spat on the ground between them. "And come over here and call me a coward where I can reach you."

  "Easy, Jack. Easy. Pyatt gets a vote too."

  "I'm for staying. So is Johnny," Jeni said, looping an arm around the pilot's shoulders.

  "Well, I dunno. . . Hey that hurts! Yeah, let's just stay here."

  "Lebedev?"

  "Nothing waits for me in south. I am content to remain."

  Everyone looked to Nabil for his answer. "I will not hide like a rabbit, Corporal. Either here or in the south, I will have my revenge."

  "You'll have your revenge. That I can promise you. I'll feed you vengeance until you choke on it." Randal tossed aside the stick he was stripping of bark and walked away from the group. His answer drew a few questioning glances, but he ignored them. A plan was forming in his mind and he wanted time to think it through.

  The team separated to bunk out for a few hours. Ariane flashed him a pleased smile in passing. He believed she might have deserted if the vote had gone differently, but he couldn't blame her. Her little boy was trapped somewhere in the city. Ever since they'd learned of Providence's fall there'd been a haunted look to her.

  Jeni commed their answer to Pieter, along with a request for tools and a cutting torch. He seemed surprised by the request, but promised to do what he could.

  Several hours later, three militiamen arrived at the draw toting the needed equipment. Randal's hope was to salvage what he could from the PSV. It wasn't feasible to try sneaking the thing into the city, let alone transporting it through tunnels.

  Aside from the ammunition and supplies, the easiest thing to secure was the recharger for the LANCER suits. The PSV was designed to be the forward support center for an armored infantry platoon. In theory, a full maintenance bay could be hundreds of kilometers away, so repair work needed to be as simple as possible. Consequently, most of the major components on the PSV were modular and quickly replaceable. The recharger was no exception. It was completely self-contained and compactly constructed. The removal of eight bolts and three cables freed it from the ship.

  Jeni and Lebedev set to cutting other needed parts from the PSV. A sullen Johnny watched from nearby, wincing each time something was cut away from his ship. In the end they managed to salvage the recharger and good portions of Jeni's dronekeeper gear.

  The militiamen led them through the forest, shadowing a paved road that led to town. Nabil trotted up next to Randal. "Corporal, I've got movement on the hardball. Get everyone down."

  Randal didn't hesitate a second. "Everybody down, now! Hit the dirt." The NGDF people complied without a moment's pause. A heavyset militiaman, Drummond if Randal remembered correctly, simply pressed himself up against a tree, peeking around the edge. Snarling, Randal high-crawled to the man. He reached up, grabbed hold of his workmen's coveralls and pulled him to the ground.

  The man let loose a string of unmentionables. Randal pinned him, pressing his visored face close to the man's. He had the rheumiest eyes Randal had ever seen, and the florid face of a hard drinker. "They might have infra-red detectors. Keeping down behind this bank can help conceal us a bit. When I tell you to do something, just DO IT."

  The lesson had to be cut short as the rumbling of armor on the road intensified. Once they were well past, Randal risked a look. As expected, he saw a trio of the six-wheeled light tanks the Scourge of the Prophet favored. They were ideal for hunting down partisans and deserters. It was a rare stroke of luck, or the grace of God, that they hadn't spotted his people. Giving Drummond's chest a sharp poke with a fingertip, Randal climbed off.

  Other than a sulky look, Drummond let the matter drop. He led the group to a culvert, where filthy water ran into a drainage canal. Beyond the banks of the canal rose the massive storage tanks and buildings of a factory — the Haelbroeck Petrol Refinery. It was the largest of the plants owned by Pieter's family. Pieter had spent a summer there as an intern, during one of his father's sporadic attempts to teach him responsibility. Around the factory were the silhouettes of modest-sized houses, the beginning of Providence's sprawling suburbs. Sprawling by New Genevan standards anyway, thought Randal. A megalopolis on the planet Terra often teemed with over forty million people.

  The team waited while the militiamen conferred with the sentries at the tunnel's entrance. "I remember that spot," Ariane said, resting next to Randal. "We lived there back when it was just a grassy field. My family had moved here from the Swiss Province on Terra during the boomtime. That area was covered with pressure tents because there was a huge housing shortage. We stayed in one for six months."

  Randal smiled at that. "Really? That was like nine years ago, right? I was in P-city then too. I spent the summer with Pieter up at the Haelbroeck house." He felt slightly relieved; it was the most Ari
ane had spoken in two days.

  The sentries signaled for them with a birdcall. Randal grinned, motioning for his people to follow. He wasn't sure how clandestine a quail call would actually be, considering the birds never strayed that far north.

  The culvert led into a maze of sewage tunnels, some barely passable in powered armor. Randal activated his onboard comp's mapping program. This used the ground surveillance sensor to develop a 3-D view of the surrounding terrain. Here in the tunnels that included both the main route they followed, as well as side tunnels for as far as readings could be received.

  "Turn left here," their guide said, gesturing with his chem-lantern. Off to the side of the walkway was the dark mouth of a tunnel. Randal could see where the steel bars sealing it were cut away. It looked like an abandoned mineshaft. Rather than the smooth walls of the sewage system, these were rough-hewn.

  After many turns, and one needed backtrack, their guide brought them to a chamber. Whichever ore men had sought, there was obviously once a rich vein at that spot — the chamber extended easily 200 meters ahead of them. Pillars of rock were left in place to act as supports, dividing the chamber into sections. Chemlamps rested on improvised sconces along the walls. The militia had expanded to fill much of the space; bedrolls and personal gear were spread haphazardly everywhere.

  Randal and the others pushed back their helmets, pausing at the entrance. About thirty men were in the chamber, killing time. A group of four sat near the entrance playing euchre. Pyatt muttered darkly about the "devil's picture books" as he spotted the card players.

  With a wry look, Randal led his team into the room.

  Pieter glanced up from where he spoke with two older men and stepped over to greet them. His eyes slid right past Randal, affixing on Ariane. "Hello there, I'm Pieter Haelbroeck," he said, flashing the same smile he gave every girl he ever found standing next to Randal.

  Ariane seemed unimpressed, which was atypical in Randal's experience with Pieter and women. "Ariane Mireault," she answered coolly.

  "Ah! Enchanté," he said, air kissing her cheeks. Pieter's accent was much better than his own, Randal noted glumly. Pieter turned, clapping loudly to gain the militiamen's attention. "Everyone, these are our new arrivals."

  The men wandered over unhurriedly. Randal thought they looked beaten. Their clothes were unkempt, their expressions flat as they approached the NGDF troopers. "This is Corporal Randal Knox; I'm sure all of you know him. I'll let him introduce his people."

  A low murmur passed through the crowd. His father had been Prime Minister for the last twelve years. There had been puff pieces about Randal on the trideo since he was a child. Then two years ago he'd graduated from Saint Athanasius. It was common knowledge that the Founder's Party was holding a safe provincial legislature seat for him, intended to groom him for higher office.

  To the shock of the pundits, as well as his father, he'd declined to announce his candidacy. Instead he enlisted as a private in the infantry. It was national news, of course.

  When interviewed he'd said only that he didn't feel ready for public office. The truth was, the prospect of making life-changing decisions for other people terrified him — the awful responsibility of it. Worse was the sense that his life was planned out for him while he was still in grade school.

  He was learning that he couldn't run from destiny. As the Khlisti saint Trotsky had once said: if you wanted a quiet life, you picked the wrong century to be born in.

  The militia stared openly as he introduced his team. Their faces reflected a mixture of resentment at what he represented, and curiosity at being in the presence of a celebrity.

  "Thank you for giving us shelter," Randal said, choosing his words carefully. "I regret what's happened to your city. I'm so sorry we weren't able to protect you better." Perhaps a few hard looks softened at the apology. "But it's important for me to be honest with you. Our war is not over by a long shot. If you allow us to stay with you, we may very well bring the war to you. I intend to keep hitting the Abkhenazi until my team is dead or Providence is free."

  "Whoa, Randal," Pieter muttered out the side of his mouth. "Throttle back a bit."

  Randal ignored him, pressing on. "I invite each of you to fight with us. God has given us an opportunity. To the south our countrymen fight for the survival of New Geneva." He paused, feeling his pulse pounding. No turning back now. "Here we have been placed by the hand of God, deep in the soft heart of the enemy. We can strike where he is vulnerable, hurt him in places the regular army cannot. Together we can bleed him to death with a thousand tiny cuts! I'm asking you to join with me. Please, help me to liberate Providence."

  Swallowing, he quieted, watching them expectantly. After an initial silence they murmured in small clumps, heads shaking, hands gesturing rapidly.

  "So let me get this straight," said a stout man with the pale complexion of a miner. "You army types want to just stroll in and take over. And we're supposed to listen just 'cause you're real army? You jokers had your chance."

  Randal shook his head, catching the man's eyes and locking onto them. "No. There will be no regular army, no militia. Only patriots of New Geneva."

  Others asked questions, more respectfully than the first. He answered them patiently, amazed at how right the situation felt. It was the same sensation that came over him in a rugby match — his conscious mind was utterly not in control, yet everything was working out.

  Pieter cleared his throat. As Randal spoke, he had sidled away to join the assembly. "There are only forty of us, Kipper. Aren't you being a little grandiose?" Then came the ironic look that Randal always hated.

  But this time it didn't put him in his place. Randal turned on his friend. "No, I'm not. I'm going to unite the militia cells and build an army."

  Pieter retreated a step, an eyebrow cocked. "You're living in a dream world, chum."

  "You are living in a dream, Pieter Haelbroeck. You and any of the rest who think to hide down here while the war goes on without you. Do you think the Abkhenazi will overlook you forever? Or your neighbors and families up above? The only reason everyone above isn't dead already is because they're more valuable as laborers than corpses.

  "These fanatics aren't fighting for our land, but for our destruction. Their religion promised them supremacy, that they would rule over all others. The fact that our civilization thrives while theirs declines makes us a living contradiction of all their beliefs. They must destroy us. Such men can't be reasoned with, only resisted.

  "Join with me. Better to die now as men than to spend the remainder of your days cowering like rats in this sewer." He turned, motioning for his people to exit the chamber. "We'll return for your decision in fifteen minutes."

  CHAPTER 8

  The guerilla must move amongst the

  people as a fish swims in the sea.

  —Mao Tse-Tung

  Pieter was nothing if not clubby, and his air of collegiality returned as soon as the militia cell signed on to Randal's plan. If anything, he sought to co-opt the vision, eagerly throwing himself into things. He christened the composite group "Knox's Irregulars," and insisted everyone use it.

  Randal ordered his people out of their powered armor and requested civilian clothes for them. He wanted to blend the two forces immediately and common dress was an important first step. A pair of university-aged militiamen brought over armloads of trousers, jackets and shirts. "We don't have any women's clothing, I'm afraid," one of them said apologetically.

  Randal started to answer, but was cut off as Ariane spoke up from behind him. "I'll get some. I'm going home."

  It wasn't a surprise. "I'll go with you, just give me a moment." Randal took up an outfit that looked like it should fit and ducked behind a stone pillar. After donning the civvies, he tucked his sidearm into the waistband of the rough workmen's trousers and stepped out. "Mind guiding us topside?" he asked one of the collegians. Ariane gave him the street address.

  "That's an upscale area. Abkhenazi officers live i
n most of those houses now. It's patrolled pretty thickly."

  "Still, I have to go there," Ariane said, a little more urgently for the new information.

  "I can get you close."

  The young man led them through the tunnels, holding a chem-lantern before them. Randal felt odd out of his armor; he missed the enhanced senses it gave him. Along the way the trio passed food wrappers, ash piles from small fires, and other signs they weren't alone in the Catacombs. The surrounding walls smoothed as they breached the sewer system once more. He was relieved to see that walkways lined both sides of the sludge.

  "Hold on," the guide said, pulling himself up to peek out a drain. "We're off-course. Wait here while I figure out where we are exactly." He disappeared into the darkness. That close to the surface they'd been forced to hood the lantern.

  "Randal?" Ariane asked, scooting a little closer in the gloom. "Can I ask you a question?"

  "Of course."

  "Don't you ever have problems with being a Christian and being a soldier? I mean, all the parts about blessed are the meek and turn the other cheek and all?"

  He blinked. "That was random."

  "I've been thinking about something. Well, don't you?"

  "Van Loon and I have talked about that quite a lot, actually. We always end up back at Romans 13, where it talks about the powers of the magistrate. 'For he does not bear the sword for nothing. He is God's servant, an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer...'" He shrugged. "I'm the sharp edge of the state's sword."

  Ariane listened and then pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them. "I want a gun."