David Drake: The Forlorn Hope

Ortschugin set the flask down with a thump on a shelf beside him. He did not meet Waldstejn's eyes. "Albrecht," he said quietly, "I came to you because I know of nowhere else to go. I am no longer First Officer-" he raised his bearded face- "I am Captain. Her Excellency died in the attack."

The spaceman stood and his voice took on a fierce resonance. "The vessel, the four crewmen who remain, they aremy responsibility. If I must steal to save them, if I must bribe-Iwill save them." He slammed his broad, pale hand down on the counter to punctuate his statement.

Lieutenant Waldstejn's icy distaste melted. He reached out and laid his hand on the back of the spaceman's, squeezing it. "Hell, I'm sorry, Vladimir," he said. "I'm just pissed because you're getting out of this hole and I probably won't." He drew a deep breath. "There's an antenna in stock; we're set up for some transport maintenance here, you were right. You can have it." Then, "Got anything left in your flask?"

Ortschugin bellowed with delight. He embraced the slighter man. "But of course you can come out with us," he said. "This base, this Smiricky Complex-in days it will be in Republican hands. Who will know?"

The tall Supply Officer snorted bitterly. "I don't think you give the Morale Section all the credit it deserves," he said. "They've saved the Rubes a lot of trouble by shooting people they decide are deserters."

"You are afraid of that?" the spaceman exclaimed. He stepped back and handed Waldstejn the liquor. "No problem. We'll hide you aboard and take you off-planet when we're repaired."

Waldstejn drank, choked, and gave Ortschugin a wry smile. When he could speak again, he said, "Seems to be my night for making speeches. Look, Vladimir, I'm no hero… but I took this job, and I guess I'll stick with everybody else." He shook his head. "Hell, I don't know…," he added, but he did not make his subject clear.

Business-like again, the Lieutenant continued, "I'm doing this for one simple reason, my friend. I want your cargo to be shipped from Praha, not Budweis. And I'm not giving you anantenna, I don't have any authority to alienate government property."

Ortschugin frowned, but he waited for the rest of the explanation.

"Ido have authority," the Supply Officer went on with a grin, "to hire transport in an emergency. I think we can justify the emergency-" he waved at what was left of the roof above them- "and so I'm hiring you to transport one power-beam antenna, surplus to local needs, back to Central Stores in Praha. Now, get your crew here with a wagon. I'd as soon it happened while it's still dark and the folks who might ask questions are in Headquarters."

Ortschugin whooped again. He went out the door, bawling snatches of a song which sounded bawdy even in a language Waldstejn could not guess at.

Someone cleared his throat at the inner doorway. The Lieutenant looked up. Both his subordinates stood there. Hodicky held a long coil of twenty-centimeter computer tape. "Oh," Albrecht Waldstejn said. "He'll be back-the crew of the freighter- to pick up the truck power antenna in a few minutes. Here, I'll okay it right now." He found a request form and began to fill it out, checking the unit number from the terminal display.

"We'll take care of it, sir," Hodicky said. "I've got the figures-" He waved the tape so that it rustled. "Want me to feed it to Headquarters?"

Waldstejn gave the request to Quade and took the tape. "Four bottles, Private," he said after a glance at the print-out."And a morning off if I can swing it." He looked up. "No, I'll carry it over as hard copy. They didn't splice the land-lines cut by the bombs yet, just ran commo wire point to point. Their terminal isn't connected-" the young officer glanced around to see that no one outside was listening- "not that anybody there could be trusted to push the right button for a print-out anyway. Hold the fort, boys," he added as he walked out of the warehouse.

Waldstejn sobered as he walked toward the concrete Headquarters building. Dimly on the eastern horizon were the flickers and rumbling of others trying to hold forts in grimtruth.

And failing.

"Ouch, you butcher!" cried Churchie Dwyer. "Did you learn to use that in a stockyard?"

"You'd bitch if they hanged you with a new rope," Bertinelli replied calmly. Bertinelli was a Corpsman. He carried a gun like everybody else, but he ranked with the sergeants for pay division. He was secure both in the light touch he knew he had and in the fact that nobody else in the Company could handle the medical tasks as well. "It's just like I told you, I learned in a morgue on Banares, putting accident victims back in shape for open cremation. Now, lie back-" he gestured with the debriding glove with which he was clean ing Dwyer's burns- "or I don't answer for what it's going to feel like."

"They sure are doing a lot of talking," said Del Hoybrin. Bertinelli had recleaned the big man's sores first. NowDel knelt with his triceps on the lip of the bunker, staring up at the transponder. The communications gear hung from a balloon tethered a hundred meters over the 522nd's radio shack. Through the night visor of his helmet, the minuscule heating of the transponder's circuits as it broadcast was a yellow glow. Satellite communications had died in showers of space junk at the beginning of the war, but there were other ways to boost tight-beam communications over useful distances.

"Well, you might at least give me something for the pain," Churchie grumbled. He lowered himself again onto the cot that doubled as an operating table.

"I'mgoing to give you something," Bertinelli said. "I'm going to give you a square meter less skin if you don't shut up and lie still." He touched the deep burn over Dwyer's right shoulder blade. The mesh of sensors and tiny hooks in the glove's pad began to purr. Under the control of a microprocessor in the wristlet, the glove was lifting off dead tissue to prepare the area for antiseptic and a covering of spray skin. In the same mild voice, the Corpsman added, "I can see the bombs starting fires and blowing the trash into your shelter. But I'mdamned if I see why you thought you had to lie in it. And I'd like to know what you found to bathe in that had such a pong, too."

"Do you suppose we'll get paid again before we move, Churchie?"Del asked. "I'd like to-for the girls again, you know. Usually there aren't girls where we go." There was a troupe of prostitutes at Smiricky #4, intended for the contract miners but available to the garrison as well.

"Think we'll be pulling back soon, then?" Bertinelli asked with just a hint of tension. He lifted the glove and began to spray the debrided area.

"Sometimes,"Del said in a neutral voice. "They're doing a lot of talking."

Churchie snorted. He continued to lie flat with his eyes closed. "Happen to notice which direction the transponder dish was pointed, baby?" he asked.

Delturned to his companions. The featureless visor was a stage beyond even the big man's usual moon-faced innocence. "East, Churchie," he said.

"Right, my dear," Churchie agreed. "And does that tell you anything?"

The Corpsman had stiffened, but after a moment he went on with his work in silence.

"No, Churchie," saidDel.

"Right again, sweetheart," Churchie bantered with his eyes closed. "Well, it might mean that they're talking to the Federal commander at the Front, that's true… but they haven't any business doing that, we're not under Second Army control, we're handled by Central from Praha… And Praha's west of here, unless they moved it since last night. So, and seeing how high they lifted that balloon before they started to jaw… I'd put pretty good money that our local friends have opened negotiations with the other side."

Bertinelli began to curse under his breath. He moved the glove to his patient's left shoulder.