“Lieutenant, we’re gonna be comin’ up on you fast,” Nace said. “Those bastards didn’t take kindly to our ambush, and they didn’t waste much time. We’ve got a company or more coming after us, and not much chance now to slow them up any more.” Nace sounded completely out of breath. Lon guessed that he was talking while he ran.

  “Can you flush them by moving to one side or the other?” Lon asked. There was a noticeable pause before Nace replied.

  “I don’t think so. They’ve got people out on both sides, almost got the horns around us.”

  “Okay, Wil. Keep coming the way you are. I’ve got you on my mapboard.” He had taken that out and opened it up during Nace’s report. “We’ll hit them while they’re chasing you. Come on through like you know there’s no help for a mile. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It might not work. If they’re in contact with the batch we’re involved with, it could all backfire, but I think it’s worth a try. They might even figure to bag all of us at once.”

  “It’s better than anything I can think of.”

  Lon had to work quickly, and get his men moving at once. He left two squads to try to contain the enemy soldiers in the two buildings, then took the rest back to set up an ambush for the Belletieners chasing Nace’s squad. That required separating third and fourth platoons again, those squads that were left, to get in front of both of the Belletiener “horns” that were attempting to encircle Nace’s squad.

  I may be splitting my command into too many pieces, Lon thought. But he did not consider reversing his decisions. He shook his head, minimally, an unconscious gesture. I’ll just have to deal with whatever comes up. One way or another.

  There was no time for anything fancy. Lon stayed with the three squads of third platoon, moving to the right. Jorgen only had two squads of fourth platoon with him, but they would set up on the left. All anyone could do was get into the best position available in a hurry, and try to stay out of sight until the enemy was close enough to get hurt.

  Lon settled into a good firing position. Unless the Belletieners changed course, they would come into view eighty yards from where most of third platoon was waiting. Soon. Nace and his squad went across the intersection a block over from where third platoon was set up to cover, and kept going as they had been instructed.

  “Keep going, Wil,” Lon said on a channel that connected him just with Nace. “You’re past our positions.” Then he switched channels to talk to all of the squad leaders at once. “Get ready. They’ll be here any second. I want to let them get all the way out in the open before we start shooting.”

  Make every bullet count, he thought, once more conscious of how short some of his men were on ammunition.

  The Belletiener force came into view—a ten-man skirmish line in front, followed by two columns, one on either side of the street. They were moving almost at a jog, caught up in the pursuit—too caught up. Lon did not see any of them look to either side for possible trouble. By the time the skirmish line got within fifteen yards of the far side of the intersection, there were sixty men visible, with no sign that the end of the unit was near. But Lon did not want to give the vanguard a chance to make it to safety.

  “Open fire,” he ordered on a channel that connected him to the three squads of third platoon.

  Lon had been tracking the near side of the enemy skirmish line. The order to fire was no more than out of his mouth before he squeezed the trigger of his rifle, moving it along the line of Belletiener troops, following them to the ground as they dove for cover. Lon was intentionally less frugal with his ammunition than he expected his men to be. He was far from being short. And the more of the enemy he could bring down personally, the less ammunition his men would need to use.

  Grenades went off over to the right, down the street that the enemy had come along.

  “Not too many more back that way, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Dendrow reported. “We had nearly all of them out in the open before we showed our hand.” That was extremely good news.

  “It’s not all of them, though, Ivar, remember that,” Lon said while he ejected the empty magazine from his rifle and inserted a full replacement. “There’s the batch Weil is hitting on the far side and however many there are behind Nace in the middle.”

  Jorgen’s men had started shooting within seconds after third platoon started the firefight. He had reported that there were only sixty of the enemy facing them—slightly more than twice the number of men he had with him.

  Lon switched channels to talk to Nace. “Cut right and go over a block. Get back and help the rest of fourth platoon.” That would make the odds there slightly more equitable. Nace acknowledged the order with a single, almost breathless, word.

  Closer in, the enemy was able to mount only sporadic return fire. This ambush had been, Lon told himself, almost spectacularly successful. “Ivar, let’s move in closer to finish this batch off before we have to worry about the ones in the middle coming over to interfere.” One squad moved while the other two provided covering fire. Lon gave the order to fix bayonets, in case the fighting came to that.

  It did not. One by one, the surviving Belletiener soldiers in the intersection started to lay down their rifles and raise their arms in surrender. A couple called out for mercy, for an end to the fighting. My God, Lon thought, suddenly dismayed. What the hell are we going to do with prisoners?

  He got to his feet and moved forward with Tebba Girana’s squad. After transferring his rifle to his left hand, Lon pulled his pistol from its holster and held that pointed in the general direction of the surrendering enemy soldiers.

  “Ivar, we’ll collect their rifles and any ammunition they’ve got,” Lon said. “That will give us some fallback if we run out of ammo for our own weapons. And disable their electronics.”

  “Right, Lieutenant,” Dendrow said with what might have been relief at the fact that Lon had thought of that. “What are we going to do with our, ah, prisoners?”

  We can’t just shoot them, Lon thought, not quite with regret. It would have been the quickest, most expedient, solution, but it would have been an unacceptable precedent to set. Dirigenters did not fight that way, ever.

  “Think we can scare up enough sleep-patches to put them out of business for a few hours?” Lon asked.

  Ivar could not stop the one quick bark of laughter that welled up in him. “I imagine we can, Lieutenant,” he said. “Always a few of ’em around.”

  “Give the wounded first aid, if we can without exposing ourselves too badly,” Lon added. “But we’ve got more of the enemy to worry about in the next few minutes.”

  “I’ll leave two men with medical kits once we know the rest of these are no threat. That’ll free up the rest of us.”

  “Let’s get busy. Weil could use some help, and there’s still the third batch of them, the ones who were right behind Nace until this started.”

  “Probably only a couple of squads there, sir,” Dendrow said. “Just enough to keep our boys from stopping in the middle. By now, they’ve probably gone over to join the fight with fourth platoon. Or turned tail, since they haven’t shown up here yet.”

  “We still need to watch out for them until we know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dendrow’s tone said, I don’t need to be told that.

  Making sure of the men who had been caught by third platoon’s ambush took only another three minutes. Weapons and ammunition were gathered up and distributed among the Dirigenters. The Belletieners’ helmets were taken from them and the electronics disabled so that they could not call for help or give any information on Lon and his men. The most badly wounded of the enemy were given quick first aid, enough to make certain that they would not bleed to death … as long as help got to them within a reasonable time. The enemy soldiers who had surrendered and were still capable of being an active threat were immobilized with sleep-patches. Those worked almost instantly, and once the men were asleep, it would be safe to leave them and not have to worry about them rejoining the fight.

  Lon sent Dendrow and two squads to help fourth platoon finish up their firefight. He kept Girana’s squad with him for a couple of minutes longer, to make certain of the enemy left from this fight.

  “Okay, Tebba. Time for us to move,” Lon said, turning to survey the area. He was taking a big risk, standing up in the middle of the intersection, but did not think about that. Any enemy would be unlikely to fire into the middle of this group right now, with some of their own as likely to be hit.

  Third platoon had suffered no casualties in this firefight, not so much as a scratch. Lon offered a silent thanks for that, although he had never been particularly religious.

  He glanced at the timeline on his visor display then. Unless something had gone wrong, the bulk of the regiment should be en route to Oceanview from the mining district, perhaps within ten or fifteen minutes of landing.

  It can’t possibly be soon enough, he thought as he started jogging along with Tebba and the rest of the squad. Let’s get this fight finished as soon as possible.

  16

  The other fight ended as Lon arrived on the scene. The last half dozen Belletieners facing fourth platoon surrendered. Lon gave the same orders as before—take their weapons and ammunition, destroy their electronics, treat the wounded, and stick sleep-patches on the necks of the healthy.

  “They have any last-minute help show up?” Lon asked Weil Jorgen. “We’re trying to account for the troops who were in the middle, chasing Nace’s squad.”

  “I can’t say for sure, Lieutenant,” Jorgen said. “We were too busy. I didn’t notice anyone joining in, but that don’t mean much, not under the circumstances.”

  Lon took a deep breath and let it out, scanning. This time he was not in the middle of an intersection, but near a corner, with a solid wall behind him. “We’ve got to get back to where we were,” he said then, talking to both platoon sergeants. “See if we can finish off the men in those two buildings before more of the enemy shows up.”

  “Leastwise, we got a bit more ammo now,” Jorgen said. Some of Lon’s men were now carrying two captured weapons in addition to their own, so that the men who had been left to keep the Belletieners in those buildings penned up would have replacements, and they were toting all of the ammunition they had found. No one was complaining about the load.

  Lon nodded, even though Jorgen was not close enough to notice. “There weren’t many RPGs, though, were there?” he asked.

  “We got three launchers, but only four grenades here,”

  Jorgen said. “I don’t know what the other platoon found.”

  “Not even that much, Weil. They had plenty of ammo for their rifles, more than we did, but we took one launcher and two grenades for it.”

  “Since we showed up, they haven’t had any resupply from space,” Jorgen commented. “I figured there wasn’t much point in keeping more than one of the launchers.”

  “The rifles we’re not taking with us, let’s make sure the enemy can’t use them again.” I wish I had thought of that before we left the other rifles, Lon thought, shaking his head.

  Jorgen chuckled. “We’re already seeing to that, Lieutenant. They’ll need to bring in spare parts before they can put them back together.”

  “Good. Let’s get moving.” Lon switched channels to include Dendrow in the conversation. “I want scouts out on all sides to give us warning of trouble,” Lon told them. “Let’s hurry it up. We’ve got to get back to the other squads.”

  It took a while for Lon to realize the change that had come over him. It had started sometime earlier. He was not certain when; it might have been when he and his men had opened fire on the Belletieners who had been chasing Nace’s squad. Lon felt himself caught up in what was happening, almost exhilarated—both by the combat and by running toward the remaining firefight, the one that had been put on hold earlier. There was no room in him for fear now, and the concerns of command seemed less burdensome. He did not worry over every possibility, but gave the orders, made the decisions.

  Maybe I’m fey, he thought, and a stark grin forced its way onto his face. As a child on Earth, he had read Norse sagas about warriors who experienced such unnatural buoyancy going into what—as often as not—would be their final battle. They were heroes cutting wide swaths through their enemies, demonstrating superhuman strength and endurance, caring nothing for their own safety. It had been a powerful image for an immature mind.

  No, I’m not fey, Lon decided, exhaling softly. I’m still in command of my mind, my actions. I haven’t lost control. That was important. He could not, would not, fail his men. They were not figures in a mythical saga to sacrifice. The feeling was almost like a runner’s high, and they were running, racing to get back to the two squads that had been left to keep the other batch of Belletiener troops bottled up. Lon had to restrain himself to keep from trying to literally make it a race. It would do no good to get to their destination with the men too winded to do anything, or—worse yet—to have them scattered over several blocks because some could not keep up.

  A couple of times Lon even stopped for a moment, waving the others on, turning to scan cross streets and into alleys. The unit crossed intersections with caution, two squads moving while the rest took up positions to provide covering fire if that became necessary. Lon would not send his men blindly across the way the Belletiener officer had, into the possibility of a disastrous ambush.

  Time had little meaning for Lon. He felt more aware than usual of everything going on around him, but the elapsing of seconds and minutes seemed not to count. There was now, and here. He no longer thought about how long it might be until the rest of the regiment arrived in Oceanview, or how long it might be before his platoons could be reunited with the rest of the company. He did think about how to deploy his men when they got to those two buildings. During one brief respite, while the platoons were crossing an intersection, he laid out his plans for the platoon sergeants.

  “Either of you see any problems with that?” he asked then.

  “It should work,” Ivar Dendrow said. “But do we need to bother with them at all now, Lieutenant? I mean, another half hour and we should have the whole regiment in the area. We can worry about getting through again, or do whatever else we might be told to do. Do we really need to risk our people to shut down a few more of the enemy?”

  Lon hesitated. It was a question he really had not been considering. He knew the what and how, but had not worried about the why. “Maybe it won’t make any difference to the contract,” he said slowly, “but the way I figure it, the more confusion and trouble we can cause back here, the less they’ll be able to concentrate on the rest of our people. As long as we can do the job smart. Weil, what do you think?”

  “I go along with your thinking, Lieutenant,” Jorgen said after a silence that was almost long enough to make the other two wonder whether or not he was on-line with them. “Especially now. The more we can put an itch up their backsides, the easier the rest will have coming in and setting up to finish this off.”

  “I withdraw my question,” Dendrow said. “I see your point. I just hope Belletiene gives us time to finish this. If they’ve still got reinforcements moving in from the south, we could find ourselves in the middle of something I see in my nightmares.”

  “Colonel Gaffney and the other battalions should be landing within minutes,” Lon said. “We get started, Belletiene should have plenty to think about besides us.”

  It was not necessary to put a line of men completely around the buildings. Squads were positioned where they could cover doors and windows. Snipers were posted to keep the Belletieners from going back and forth between the two buildings. The avenue between them was wide—a perfect killing zone for expert marksmen. At the moment, the Belletiener troops were quiet, doing no shooting, and not showing themselves. The Dirigenters outside held back as well. As long as the enemy did not present a worthwhile target, no one was going to waste ammunition.

  “We’ll take this building first,” Lon told Dendrow, who was next to him in a building just across the street from the target. “Put two squads in through the doors we can see. I want everyone on this side covering them. RPGs in the windows and doors. We get close, a regular drill—hand grenades through each doorway before anyone sticks a neck out. We secure this building, we’ll have the other one in a real hurt. Maybe enough that they’ll surrender rather than have us take them the hard way.”

  “Should we ask the first batch to surrender before we go in?” Dendrow asked. “They’ve been cooped up quite a bit already, with no one come to rescue them.”

  “Go ahead. Tell them they’ve got one chance to come out whole, and don’t give them a lot of time.”

  Lon listened while Dendrow delivered the ultimatum. He used his helmet radio as a bullhorn—helmets used by DMC officers and noncoms had that capability. Dendrow spoke slowly to make certain that he would be understood. The dialects spoken on Dirigent and Belletiene were different enough to make that caution advisable. Dendrow kept his message simple, with no additions beyond what Lon had told him.

  When Ivar finished, both he and Lon looked at the timelines on their visor displays. Ivar had given the Belletieners one minute to lay down their weapons and start filing out of the building with their hands above their heads.

  We don’t have enough sleep-patches to put many more of them down, Lon thought. He was startled by the way that idea popped into his head. We’re not set up to watch prisoners, but I’d rather see them surrender and avoid a bloody fight. Several seconds passed while he assured himself that there were no sinister motives behind the thought. We don’t kill prisoners, ever. It’s not right, even without the penalties the Corps has for that. Under the military discipline of the DMC, murdering prisoners was no different from any other kind of murder. The punishment was “Death or such lesser sentence as the court-martial convening authority shall deem appropriate.”

  The minute expired. No Belletieners emerged from the buildings. There were no messages from them, no reply to the ultimatum. Nolan and Dendrow looked at each other, each seeing only the blank mask of the other’s faceplate.

 

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