Hope Renewed (61 page)

That wasn’t the worst of it, nor the fact that every third village they passed was empty, meaning that the villagers had decided they liked the priest and squire better than the local
travailleur
or anarchist schoolteacher or cobbler-organizer. Those villages had the school burnt rather than the church, and the people were undoubtedly hiding in the hills getting ready to ambush the government supply lines, such as they were.

What was
really
bad was the solid column of refugees pouring north up the road and tying everything up in an inextricable tangle. Only the pressure from both sides kept up as those behind tried to push through, so the whole thing was bulging the way two hoses would if you joined them together and pumped in water from both ends.
And
they’d blocked the train, which held his artillery and supplies, and the men on the train were starting to get off and mingle with the shouting, milling, pushing crowd as well. A haze of reddish-yellow dust hung over the crossroads village, mingling with the stink of coal smoke, unwashed humanity, and human and animal wastes.

“We’ve got to get some order here,” Jeffrey muttered.

The anarchist political officer looked at him sharply. “True order emerges spontaneously from the people, not from an authoritarian hierarchy which crushes their spirit!” De Villers began heatedly.

“The only thing emerging spontaneously from this bunch is shit and noise,” Jeffrey said, leaving the man staring at him open-mouthed.

Not used to being cut off in midspeech.

“Brigadier Gerard,” Jeffrey went on, to the Unionaise Loyalist officer in the car. “If you would come with me for a moment?”

Gerard stepped out of the car. The anarchist made to follow, but stopped at a look from Jeffrey. They walked a few paces into the crowd, more than enough for the ambient sound to make their voices inaudible.

“Brigadier Gerard,” Jeffrey began.

“That’s Citizen Comrade Brigadier Gerard,” the officer said deadpan. He was a short man, broad-shouldered and muscular, with a horseman’s walk—light cavalry, originally, Jeffrey remembered. About thirty-five or a little more, a few gray hairs in his neatly trimmed mustache, a wary look in his brown eyes.

“Horseshit. Look, Gerard, you should have this job. You’re the senior Loyalist officer here.”

“But they do not trust me,” Gerard said.

“No, they don’t. Better than half the professional officers went over to the rebels, I was available, and they
do
trust me . . . a little. So I’m stuck with it. The question is, are you going to help me do what we were sent to do, or not? I’m going to do my job, whether you help or not. But if you don’t, it goes from being nearly impossible to completely impossible. If I get killed, I’d like it to be in aid of something.”

Gerard stared at him impassively for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. “
Bon,
” he said, holding out his hand. “Because appearances to the contrary,
mon ami
”—he indicated the milling mob around them—”this is the better side.”

Jeffrey returned the handshake and took a map out of the case hanging from his webbing belt. “All right, here’s what I want done,” he said. “First, I’m going to leave you the Assault Guards—”

“You’re putting me in command here?” Gerard said, surprised.

“You’re now my chief of staff, and yes, you’ll command this position, for what it’s worth. The Assault Guards are organized, at least, and they’re used to keeping civilians in line. Use them to clear the roads. Offload the artillery and send the train back north for more of everything. Meanwhile, use your . . . well, troops, I suppose . . . to dig in here.”

He waved to either side. The narrow valley wound through a region of tumbled low hills, mostly covered in olive orchards. On either side reached sheer fault mountains, with near-vertical sides covered in scrub at the lower altitudes, cork-oak, and then pine forest higher up.

“Don’t neglect the high ground. The Errife are half mountain goat themselves, and Libert knows how to use them.”

“And what will you do, Citiz—General Farr?”

“I’m going to take . . . what’s his name?” He jerked a thumb towards the car.

“Antoine De Villers.”

“Citizen Comrade De Villers and his anarchist militia down the valley and buy you the time you need to dig in.”

Gerard stared, then slowly drew himself up and saluted. “I can use all the time you can find,” he said sincerely.

Jeffrey smiled bleakly. “That’s usually the case,” he said. “Oh, and while you’re at it—start preparing fallback positions up the valley as well.”

Gerard nodded. De Villers finally vaulted out of the car and strode over to them, hitching at the rifle on his shoulder, his eyes darting from one soldier to the other.

“What are you
gentlemen
discussing?” he said. “Gentleman” was not a compliment in the government-held zone, not anymore. In some places it was a sentence of death.

“How to stop Libert,” Jeffrey said. “The main force will entrench here. Your militia brigade, Citizen Comrade De Villers, will move forward to”—he looked at the map—”Vincennes.”

De Villers’ eyes narrowed. “You’ll send us ahead as the sacrificial lambs?”

“No, I’ll
lead
you ahead,” Jeffrey said, meeting his gaze steadily. “The Committee of Public Safety has given me the command, and I lead from the front. Any questions?”

After a moment, De Villers shook his head.

“Then go see that your men have three days rations; there’s hardtack and jerked beef on the last cars of that train. Then we’ll get them moving south.”

When De Villers had left, Gerard leaned a little closer. “My friend, I admire your choice . . . but there are unlikely to be many survivors from the anarchists.”

He flinched a little at Jeffrey’s smile. “I’m fully aware of that, Brigadier Gerard. My strategy is intended to improve the government’s chances in this war, after all.”

“So.”

General Libert walked around the aircraft, hands clenched behind his back. It was a biplane, a wood-framed oval fuselage covered in doped fabric, with similar wings joined by wires and struts. The Land sunburst had been hastily painted over on the wings and showed faintly through the overlay, which was the double-headed ax symbol of Libert’s Nationalists. A single engine at the front drove a two-bladed wooden prop, and there was a light machine gun mounted on the upper wing over the cockpit. It smelled strongly of gasoline and the castor oil lubricant that shone on the cylinders of the little rotary engine where they protruded through the forward body. Two more like it stood nearby, swarming with technicians as the Chosen “volunteers” gave their equipment a final going-over.

“So,” Libert said again. “What is the advantage over your airships?”

Gerta Hosten paused in working on her gloves. She was sweating heavily in the summer heat, her glazed leather jacket and trousers far too warm for the sea-level summer heat. Soon she’d be out of it.

“General, it’s a smaller target—and much faster, about a hundred and forty miles an hour. Also more maneuverable; one of these can skim along at treetop level. Both have their uses.”

“I see,” Libert said thoughtfully. “Very useful for reconnaissance, if they function as specified.”

“Oh, they will,” Gerta said cheerfully.

The Unionaise general gave her a curt nod and strode away. She vaulted onto the lower wing and then into the cockpit, fastening the straps across her chest and checking that the goggles pushed up on her leather helmet were clean. Two Protégé crewmen gripped the propeller. She checked the simple control panel, fighting down an un-Chosen gleeful grin, and worked the pedals and stick to give a final visual on the ailerons and rudder.
I love these things,
she thought. One good mark on John’s ledger; he’d delivered the plans on request. And the Technical Research Council had improved them considerably.

“Check!” she shouted.

“Check!”

“Contact!”

“Contact!”

The Protégés spun the prop. The engine coughed, sputtered, spat acrid blue smoke, then caught with a droning roar. Gerta looked up at the wind streamer on its pole at a corner of the field and made hand signals to the ground crew. They turned the aircraft into the wind; she looked behind to check that the other two were ready. Then she swung her left hand in a circle over her head, while her right eased the throttle forward. The engine’s buzz went higher, and she could feel the light fabric of the machine straining against the blocks before its wheels and the hands of the crew hanging on to tail and wing.

Now. She chopped the hand forward. The airplane bounced forward as the crew’s grip released, then bounced again as the hard unsprung wheels met the uneven surface of the cow pasture. The speed built, and the jouncing ride became softer, mushy. When the tailwheel lifted off the ground she eased back on the stick, and the biplane slid free into the sky. It nearly slid sideways as well; this model had a bad torque problem. She corrected with a foot on the rudder pedals and banked to gain altitude, the other two planes following her to either side. Her scarf streamed behind her in the slipstream, and the wind sang through the wires and stays, counterpoint to the steady drone of the engines.

Bassin du Sud opened beneath her; scattered houses here in the suburbs, clustering around the electric trolley lines; a tangle of taller stone buildings and tenements closer to the harbor. Pillars of smoke still rose from the city center and the harbor; she could hear the occasional popping of small-arms fire. Mopping up, or execution squads. There were Chosen ships in the harbor, merchantmen with the golden sunburst on their funnels, unloading into lighters. Gangs of laborers were transferring the cargo from the lighters to the docks, or working on clearing the obstacles and wreckage that prevented full-sized ships from coming up to the quays; she was low enough to see a guard smash his rifle butt into the head of one who worked too slowly, and then boot the body into the water.

The engines labored, and the Land aircraft gained another thousand feet of altitude. From this height she could see the big soccer stadium at the edge of town, and the huge crowd of prisoners squatting around it. Every few minutes another few hundred would be pushed in through the big entrance gates, and the machine guns would rattle. General Libert didn’t believe in wasting time; anyone with a bruise on their shoulder from a rifle butt went straight to the stadium, plus anyone on their list of suspects, or who had a trade union membership card in his wallet.
Anyone who still has one of those is too stupid to live,
Gerta thought cheerfully, banking the plane north.

There were more columns of smoke from the rolling coastal plain, places where the wheat wasn’t fully harvested and the fields had caught, or more concentrated where a farmhouse or village burned. Dust marked the main road, a long winding serpent of it from Libert’s Legionnaires and Errife as they marched north. The wheeled transport was mostly animal-drawn, horses and mules, and strings of packmules too. That would change when the harbor was functional again; the Land ships waiting to unload included a fair number of steam trucks, and even some armored cars. The infantry was marching on either side of the road in ordered columns of fours; heads turned up to watch the aircraft swoop overhead, but thankfully, nobody shot at her.

The mountains ahead grew closer, jagged shapes of Prussian-blue looming higher than her three thousand feet. There was a godlike feeling to this soaring flight; to Gerta’s way of thinking, it was utterly different from airship travel. On a dirigible you might as well be on a train running through the sky. This was more like driving a fast car, but with the added freedom of three dimensions and no road to follow; alone in the cockpit she allowed herself a chuckle of delight. You could go
anywhere
up here.

Right now she was supposed to go where the action was. A faint
pop-pop-popping
came from the north.
Ah, some of the enemy are still putting up a fight.
The resistance in Bassin du Sud and on the road north had been incompetently handled, but more determined than she’d have expected.

Gerta waggled her wings. The other two airplanes closed in; she waited until they were close enough to see her signals clearly, then slowly pointed left and right, swooped her hand, and circled it again before pointing back southward. Her flankers each banked away.
Funny how fast you can lose sight of things up here,
she thought. They dwindled to dots in a few seconds, almost invisible against the background of earth and sky. Then she put one wing over and dove.

Time to check things out,
she thought as the falling-elevator sensation lifted her stomach into her ribs.

Somebody screamed and pointed upwards. John Hosten craned his neck to look through the narrow leaves of the cork-oak, squinting against the noon sun. The roar of the engine whined in his ears as the wings of the biplane drew a rectangle of shadow across the woods. It came low enough to almost brush the top branches of the scrubby trees, trailing a scent of burnt gasoline and hot oil strong enough to overpower the smells of hot dry earth and sunscorched vegetation. He could see the leather-helmeted head of the pilot turning back and forth, insectile behind its goggles.

Everyone in the grove had frozen like rabbits under a hawk while the airplane went by, doing the best possible thing for the worst possible reason.

“It’s a new type of flying machine,” John said. “They build them in Santander, too; that one was from the Land, working for Libert.”

The
chink
of picks, knives, and sticks digging improvised rifle pits and sangars resumed; everyone still alive had acquired a healthy knowledge of how important it was to dig in. John still had an actual shovel. He worked the edge under a rock and strained it free, lifting the rough limestone to the edge of his hole.

“Sir,” one of his ex-marines said. “They’re coming.”

He tossed the shovel to another man and crawled forward, sheltering behind a knotted, twisted tree trunk, blushing pink since the cork had been stripped off, and trained his binoculars. Downslope were rocky fields of yellow stubble, with an occasional carob tree. In the middle distance was a farmstead, probably a landlord’s from the size and blank whitewashed outer walls. A defiant black anarchist flag showed that the present occupants had different ideas, and mortar shells were falling on it. Beyond it, Errife infantry were advancing, small groups dashing forward while their comrades fired in support, then repeating the process. John shaped a silent whistle of reluctant admiration at their bounding agility, and the way they disappeared from his sight as soon as they went to earth, the brown-on-brown stripes of their kaftans vanishing against the stony earth.