David Drake: The Forlorn Hope

When the cannon opened up, the infantry had shifted its fire to concentrate on the buildings to the left of the one in which their comrades were trapped. The Federals in that stretch too had already been silenced. But as familiar figures staggered from the corner building, the Gunner opened fire again. In part, it was for safety's sake, demolishing everything in sight that faced the boulevard. That way no one could crawl to a window and shoot a trooper on the edge of safety.

There was more to it than good technique, however. Roland Jensen was a veteran who knew that killing was a matter of business, not emotion. But there were two figures fewer than there should have been running toward the ship, and three of those he did see were being dragged or carried by others.

It gave Gunner Jensen a certain pleasure to see Cecach buildings collapsing with a roar as he drew his sights through them.

"Are you all right, Captain?" asked Roland Jensen. He spoke with the calm born of experience with wounds.

"I'll live," said Albrecht Waldstejn. He touched the tape over his ribs. Hold Two wasa babel of enthusiasm and minor casualties, but it was big enough for that and the cargo of metal as well. The Cecach officer looked from the general confusion to the men who had joined him in the corner where he sat staring at his hands. Jensen, Mboko, ben Mehdi… even Vladimir Ortschugin. "You got me off-planet with my life," Waldstejn continued. "I guess we're off-planet? I was getting these-" he touched the tape again- "done…?"

"We entered the envelope six minutes ago," Ortschugin said with satisfaction."Six minutes and… thirty-nine seconds."

"Yeah, well," said Waldstejn. He looked from his hands to the other men again. "Hey, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate it. They were going to kill me, I know. Only… only…" He breathed as deeply as the tape would allow. "Look," he went on, "you won't be able to understand this, I know, but-that was home. I'm alive, and I don't have a home or a,, hell… don't have a future." The young man grinned bitterly. "You need an engine-wiper, Vladimir? Or maybe the Company could use a trooper who's proved he can't hit a damned thing with a gun?"

"I can teach anybody to shoot," said Sergeant Mboko. "I can't teach them to think better than I do."

"We want you for our Captain, Mr. Waldstejn," said Roland Jensen. "Call yourself Colonel like the Old Man did, if you like."

Waldstejn straightened. His eyes searched for the member of the command group who was missing.

Lieutenant ben Mehdi understood the look. "Worried about Hummel?" he said. "Don't be. Bertinelli's still working her over, but it was her idea to begin with."The Lieutenant's mouth quirked into something with less humor than a smile. "That was before we crashed back into Smiricky-while some of us didn't see much use in planning for the future."

"I'm going back to the bridge," said Captain Ortschugin. He thrust out his hand to be shaken. "But look-you saved my ship, which is nothing, I am no Excellency to pull strings… but also you saved a ship of the Pyaneta Lines. It could be that something other than engine-wiper could be found for you." The spacer strode off, spitting tobacco juice at random into the jumbled ingots.

"Can I have a little while to think about it?" Albrecht Waldstejn asked his hands.

The two non-coms exchanged looks of surprise. "Ah, I don't know if you realize what this means when we'renot on service," Sergeant Mboko said. "That's three full shares of what's usually a damned big pie."

"I appreciate that, Sergeant," Waldstejn said with raised eyes and a sharper tone. "If you need my decision now, however-"

Hussein ben Mehdi stepped between the two men. He gave Waldstejn a salesman's broad grin. "Hey," he said, "it's three days before we dock on Novaya Swoboda. No hurry, sir, no hurry." He put his hands on the shoulders of the two big non-coms. "Come on, boys," he added, "we need to settle bunk arrangements now that the crew's quarters are the sick bay."

The three men walked forward. Albrecht Waldstejn was staring at his hands again.

Churchie Dwyer cried out sharply and awakened. Del Hoybrin held his comrade's hands firmly until he was sure that Churchie would not strike himself in the face the way he had an hour before. "Are you all right, Churchie?" the big man asked.

"Jesus, Del, Jesus," the wounded man whispered. The drugs left him without physical pain, only patterns of weights and pressures which trapped his body. That made it hard to tell reality from dream… but Del Hoybrin was here, and in his dreams "Jesus!" the veteran repeated. He tried to focus on the concerned face of his friend. Bertinelli glanced over, then went back to the trooper whose grazed scalp needed a fresh dressing.

Churchie licked his lips. "Del," he whispered, "how many people have I killed, do you suppose? The ones that I could see, I mean."

The bigger soldier wrinkled his brow in concentration. "Gee, Churchie," he said, "I don't know. A lot, I guess?"

"Every damned one of them deserved it, sweetheart," the wounded man said. He closed his eyes. "Nobody alivedon't deserve it, and it don't bother me a bit to handle things… You know that?"

"Yes, Churchie,"Del said. "But why don't you go back to sleep now?"

The Doc had told him it was best for Churchie to sleep for the next twenty-four hours or so. Del really did not like it when his friend was asleep, though. Churchie kept moaning all the time.

"Hey, Lieutenant," called someone as Hussein ben Mehdi walked through Hold One on his way to the bridge.

He paused, looking for the speaker. Trooper Powers waved. She sat on the end of a cot; but it was Sergeant Hummel, supine on the same cot, who had spoken. Hummel raised herself to one elbow and beckoned him over.

Ben Mehdi obeyed with a blank face. "Didn't expect to see you here, Sergeant," he said neutrally.

"Had them shift me out as soon as I woke up," the non-com grumbled. "If I'm going to feel like hell, I may as well have some elbow room while I do it." She paused. Her eyes and the cold blue eyes of Iris Powers were on the Lieutenant. He shifted his weight, preparing to leave. The Sergeant stopped him by adding, "Bunny tells me we owe you one."

Ben Mehdi looked at the seated woman, then the reclining one. "Yeah, well," he said. "I'm just as glad it was you being carried, not me."

Sergeant Hummel nodded, then grimaced at the pain. "I'm not worth adamn," she muttered to no one in particular. Then she focused on ben Mehdi again. "Yeah," she said as the officer fidgeted, "but we got three days of this, they tell me." She looked at her blonde friend and asked, "Bunny, how long's it been since we really partied?"

Trooper Powers' mouth spread in a wide, slow grin. "Podele'sWorld, wasn't it?" she said."Sure, Podele's World. The bartender."

Hummel looked back at ben Mehdi. "I'll tell you what, Lieutenant," she said. "We'll get a room in a good hotel when we dock in. And we'lllay on enough booze and food for-" she pursed her lips as she examined the officer-"four days, let's say. And then we'll party."

Ben Mehdi's eyes widened. He stared at the older woman, then the younger one. Both of them were smiling wickedly. "Allah!" he said. He started to point but caught himself. "You meanboth of you?"

"Hey, Lieutenant," said Iris Powers. The smile was in her voice as well as on her lips. "Don't knock it till you've tried it." She chuckled aloud. "And I don't remember anybody knocking it then."

After a further moment of gaping, Hussein ben Mehdi began to grin also.

"Hi, Lieutenant," said a voice. Its language and familiarity broke into Albrecht Waldstejn's black revery better than a shout could have.