David Drake - The Forlorn Hope

Someone came to a decision. There was a change in the medley of the drive fans. Republican infantrymen turned in alarm. Waldstejn's own heart leaped in fear of the unexpected modification. Then the background noise died away as all the vehicles settled to the ground. Their fans slowed to idle on descending notes. The difference was as abrupt as that of walking out of a stadium where amplified music was being performed.

"Thank God you've found us, sir!" Lieutenant Waldstejn cried to forestall the Republican officer. The troops in dark uniforms clustered about their captive. Others from the group still near their vehicle moved uncertainly toward the two Federal privates. "My men and I were kidnapped from Smiricky #4 by a band of bloodthirsty cut-throats-off-planet dregs, every man of them and their whores too! Now that you're hot on their trail, we have a chance to get revenge. Why, you cansee how the beasts used us."

Waldstejn waved back toward the Privates. Quade and Hodicky certainly looked the hang-dog remnants of brutal torture. Quade's uniform had one sleeve. The scabs on his arm had opened again when he climbed from the truck. Red cracks seamed the dried blood. They looked to be one stage removed from amputation, though the scrapes were trivial compared to the bruising Quade had received at the same time.

For his part, Hodicky had washed his trousers at the first spring they came to. He had then marched in them wet. Dust had fused to mud that seeped into the fabric as indelibly as the original dye. That, together with gares ripped in the cloth by the brush and an expression of stark terror, made Pavel Hodicky look as battered a victim as his black-haired friend.

"But where-" the Republican officer began. His radio broke in on him. Its demand was a buzzing snarl, audible in full only through his earpiece but easy enough for Waldstejn to reconstruct from his own experience with anxious superiors. "Sir, they say they were capture-" the Republican tried to explain.

"Is your commanding officer in the tank, Major?" asked Lieutenant Waldstejn pleasantly. He could not identify Republican rank tabs. If he could have, he would have bumped the harried officer two grades for certain rather than by estimate. "Here, it'll be simpler to do this directly, won't it? I understand, I'll keep my hands where everyone can see them." As he spoke, the Federal officer began to walk forward at an easy pace. He was striking for the right side of the tank that faced him squarely. He held his hands at shoulder height, their bare palms forward.

"No!" shouted the Republican officer as his radio buzzed again. "No sir, I didn't-"

"That's all right, boys, keep me covered and we'll all be safer," said Waldstejn to the two infantrymen who seemed ready to block him without direct orders. Retaining his calm smile, Waldstejn nodded in the direction he was moving. The tank laser and the automatic cannon of the nearest APC were both trained on him-and on the Republican troops around him. One of them leaped back with a look of horror and an oath.

From what Waldstejn had heard, swearing like that in the Rube forces was good for six months solitary-or death, if your Unit chaplain was hard-nosed. Even so, the Federal officer thought the oath was a reasonable response to the imminent likelihood of being blasted by friendly weapons.

And Albrecht Waldstejn was well able to empathize with that concern at the moment.

"Ah, none of you guys'd have some water, would you?" asked Private Hodicky. He gave the Republican soldiers a nervous smile. The Federal private had learned years before that bullies found his smile a good reason to kick him. That was fine. These troops could like him or despise him, it was all the same. What they had betternot do wasfear him and watch him closely.

"Ah, back in the can," one of the Republicans muttered with a gesture toward the personnel carrier. There was the usual tendency of troops being moved by vehicle to strip gear fromthemselves. Packs and web gear prodded uncomfortably when you were one of eighteen or twenty men being jounced in a cramped troop compartment. Of course, that meant that when something happened, your gear was in a tangle out of reach. None of the six men clustered around the Federal captives carried a canteen. Only two of them had slung belts of ammunition before spilling out of the vehicle.

Not that that mattered. Two shots would be quite enough for Hodicky and Q. Their hands were as bare as Waldstejn's.

"This yourtruck?" one of the Rubes asked. He nodded. The taupe-clad men were uncertain. Their covert glances toward the rear showed it was not action by their prisoners that they particularly feared. The 522nd Garrison Battalion had been typical of second-line Federal units in having little or no discipline. Its officers were for the most part despicable; certainly they were despised by the troops they nominally commanded.

The situation in the Republican forces was wholly different. Rigid control was exerted downward from all levels. Breaches of discipline were corrected with a rigor which seemed harsh even by comparison with the standards set for civilians by the theocrats of Budweis. There was a basic flaw, howler, inFrederick the Great's dictum that soldiers should fear their officers more than they feared the enemy. That stifles initiative and causes men to look up the chain of command instead ofthemselves taking even the simplest measures.

Measures like deciding what to do with a pair of Federal privates they had been told to watch.

"We fixed it," croaked Jirik Quade. He gave the skirt of the supply truck a thump with his hand. The contact felt good. He hit the metal again. "When, when we got away from the, yeah, the guys who, ah.

…" Quade thumped the vehicle a third time and watched it carefully. He had not made eye contact with any of the Rubes since they approached the truck. He was going to screw up, he was going to get Pavel and the Lieutenant killed, and he did not even have a gun!

"Right," said Hodicky with enthusiasm. Lieutenant Waldstejn was walking toward the tank, now. He seemed to be drawing with him a cluster of Rubes including the protesting infantry officer. "We fixed it up, but then we waited for you guys. You know, we tried to j-join the Lord's forcesbe -"

Waldstejn turned. He looked worn and lonely amidst the taupe uniforms. "Private Hodicky," he called in a clear voice, "showthe Major how the truck works. Just back it up a little."

"Butsir]" the little private cried.

Waldstejn ignored him. The tall, slim officer stepped around the bow of the tank, out of Hodicky's sight.

"One of you guyswant to get in with me?" asked Hodicky. His mind was neatly calculating, chosing words that clicked out engagingly through his fixed smile. He climbed the step, then slid into the cab through the door that they had left open. "Not that we could run anywhere," the Private's mouth pattered on, "jeez no, think what that-waving at the armored bow, thirty steps away- "would do!"

"Hey, hold on," said a dark-clad soldier. "I don't think…" His assault rifle was of a pattern different from those issued to Federal troops, but it had the same sort of hole in the muzzle end. More or less without thinking, the Republican began to point the weapon for emphasis.

Private Quade undid his fly.

The dark-haired private was supposed to call attention away from Hodicky by counterfeiting an epileptic fit. Hecouldn't do that, could not act any better than he could have flown a starship. But there had been no one else to use, because Quade could not drive the truck, either…

"Hey, watch that!" a soldier cried as he leaped away.

Quade's urine splashed audibly from the skirt of the truck, gouging away at the grime on the steel. As Hodicky boosted the power, air squirted out beneath the skirts. The side-draft caught the urine and atomized it across Quade's boots and those of the Republicans on the ground with him. "Whoops, should've looked for the lee rail," the little man cried happily over the intake whine. The others cursed.