David Drake - The Forlorn Hope

"You better go, sir," Mboko said without looking away from the spectacle. "I'll bring in the rear guard, never fear."

As Waldstejn started to move off, he heard the Sergeant say, "Colonel was right a lot of the time. But he still hired us out to these Federal sons of bitches."

The radioed summons had been to Ensign Brionca's office at the 522nd Headquarters building. Vladimir Ortschugin noticed immediately, however, that the real power there lay with the Republican chaplain. The holes punched during the fighting thirty-six hours before had been patched with plastic sheeting, but the building still smelled of burnt insulation.

For that matter, the Swobodan spaceman caught a whiff of Major Lichtenstein's body also. It hung as an object lesson from the boom of a crane parked just outside. The Major's neck had stretched so that his right boot drew little circles in the dust as his body twisted. Formally, the Republicans had executed Lichtenstein for failing to prevent the loss of much of the mercenaries' valuable equipment. Personally, Ortschugin wondered whether the Re publicans would have deemed the offense punishable by death if they had been able to imagine any other use for the fat, drunken Major.

Ortschugin strolled into what had been the Major's office. He bowed and said, "Excellency, I am Acting Captain Vladimir Ortschugin, a free citizen of Novaya Swoboda. I am at your service."

Ortschugin had gained a few hours observation of the men who had conquered Smiricky #4. The Swobodan was aware now that his assumption of 'business as usual' had been seriously in error. Perhaps the very highest officers thought in terms of political and economic realities. Most Rubes, however, were on a mission for their Lord.

The slim, dark Republican officer did not speak. He rose from his chair instead and walked over to the spacer. The Republican uniform was taupe colored, a shade too dull even to be called black. Perhaps at base it was a yellow of infinite drabhess, like a mole's hide. The Republican wore no insignia of rank, but Ortschugin did not need Captain Brionca's obvious terror to recognize the man's authority.

The Republican touched the chain which was barely visible at the throat of the Swobodan's tunic. He tugged out the small crucifix attached to it, still without speaking. With a single jerk of his hand, the Republican broke the chain and dropped the little icon on the floor. As his boot ground the silver against the tile, the Republican said, "On Cecach we no longer worship a dead god, Captain. We worship the OneWho is Risen. This will be your only warning." He returned to his chair.

The back of Ortschugin's neck was stinging, but he was not sure whether the drops crawling down his vertebrae were sweat or blood. He swallowed to be able to say, "Yes, Excellency, I understand."

"You know your ship has been confiscated for trading with idolators," the Republican said as if he really did assume that would be obvious to the Swobodan. "What will be required to fly it back to Budweis?"

"Well, Excellency-" Ortschugin began.

"I am not an 'Excellency', foreigner!" the Republican officer broke in. "Only our Lord is excellent. You may refer to me as Chaplain Bittman, if you desire."

Ortschugin nodded obsequiously. What hedesired… But if he were to survive the next minutes, much less lift again from thisdamnable planet… "Yes, Chaplain Bittman," he said aloud. "The hull damage will not prevent us from operating in an atmosphere, though of course we could not, ah, go off-planet under such circumstances." That was a lie-they could work ship in pressure suits if they ever got a powerplant. The discomfort would be a damned cheap price for a return to Swoboda. "But we still need a main fusion bottle. We can't lift on the auxilliary power unit, and we couldn't stay up for more than a few minutes on it alone if we did lift." And that was almost the truth, more was the pity, or theKatyn Forest would have been long gone.

"What about the broadcast antenna you rigged?" asked Captain-Ensign, now-Brionca unexpectedly.

The two men looked at her-Bittman in cool surprise, Ortschugin with an expression he prayed did not reflect his horror at the question. "Yes, tell us about that," prodded the Chaplain. "You have fitted an antenna to take you to Praha along the truck pylons?"

"We had, ah, considered, doing that, yes," the spaceman answered carefully. He decided that only the simple truth was going to work. That bitch Brionca was staring at him sullenly. Her uniform looked as if she had slept in it. Her eyes looked as if she had not slept for a week. "The power hook-up proved possible-" they could check the ship and see that- "but there are delays in the alignment controls. The program is simple compared to our ordinary navigational work, of course, but it's very different…" Ortschugin let his voice trail off. Sweat from his forehead made his eyes sting, but he was afraid to raise his hand to wipe them. Saint Nicolasbe with us now!

Bittman stood again. He was showing the first signs of real interest since his eyes had stopped measuring Ortschugin for a rope. No one had suggested that the spaceman sit down. His knees were beginning to quiver with the unaccustomed brace in which tension was holding him. "You mean that your whole huge starship can run on broadcast power in good truth?" the Chaplain demanded.

"We, ah, thought perhaps so," the Swobodan agreed. "We didn't test it before the Complex, ah-"

"Yes, was liberated," Chaplain Bittman finished for Ortschugin. He added, in a voice which had no more expression or mercy than the clack of a trap closing, "I advise you not to 'test' the system now, either, Captain. The idolators are attempting to make a stand along the line between here and Praha-they know how important it will be to the future of the Return to God. Elements of the three armored regiments are pushing them back. Major elements." Bittman permitted himself a smile at something he probably thought was funny. "What do you suppose the concentrated fire of, say, four Terra-built tanks would do to the hull even of your starship, Captain?"

"We're at your service, E-Chaplain Bittman," the spacer said through dry lips, "but the pylons do lead only west from here."

"For the moment!" the Chaplain retorted with a zeal that shone across his slim, swarthy face. "Do you know why this line is crucial to the Lord's work, Captain?" he demanded rhetorically. "Because the fusion plant here, for the mining and smelting operations, was more than big enough to energize a broadcast system as well. That means that when we complete a temporary link from our own system east of Bradova, we have a channel for the heaviest, bulkiest supplies straight to the idolators' capital! Our armor is the head of the spear plunging into the heart of schism and idolatry!"

For the moment, Ortschugin's mind made of him an engineer again and not merely a victim. He understood the situation perfectly. Pylons were easy enough to raise and align. They were, after all, little more than lattices with two pairs of antennas. The lower alignments beamed power to whatever vehicle was equipped to receive it, while the upper alignments charged the system itself. Cutting a pylon would prevent vehicles from proceeding until the gap was repaired, but the other parts of the system would continue to function.

Ifit were energized from both sides of the gap.

Republicans and Federalists both had crisscrossed their sides of the Front with branch lines to supply their troops. The power and load capacity of the branches was limited, however. The working, full-scale fusion plant of Smiricky #4 could very well tip the scales. The next Republican thrust would not outrun its supplies and so be contained, the way previous victories had been.

Ensign Brionca understood also. She was looking at her hands, interlaced on the desk in front of her. Her fingers were not moving, but each nail left a bloodless white halo on the back of the hand where it rested. For the first time, Captain Ortschugin felt a twinge of sympathy for her.