“Jesus, there are too many of them!” Jeffrey said, swinging the barrel to try and break up concentrations. The Errife came forward like water through a dam built of branches, flowing around anything hard, probing for empty spots. He fired again and again, clamping down the trigger for short three-second bursts, spent brass tinkling down to roll underfoot and be trodden into the dirt.
A dim figure tumbled into the slit trench with them. The Unionaise soldier dropped the ammunition belt and snatched up an entrenching tool stuck into the soft earth of the trench side and began a chopping stroke that would have buried it in the newcomer’s head.
“It’s me! Francois!”
With a grunt of effort the first man turned the shovel aside, burying it again in the earth.
“You’re late,” he panted, turning back to the box. “Get your rifle and make yourself useful.”
There was nothing but moonlight and starlight to shoot by now. Just enough to see the stirring of movement to his front.
“What’s your name?” Jeffrey said, between bursts.
“Henri,” the loader said. “Henri Trudeau.” Then: “Watch it!”
Something whirred through the air. They both ducked; behind them Francois stood for a few fatal seconds, still fumbling with the bolt of his rifle. The grenade thumped not far above the lip of the machine gun nest. There was a wet sound from behind them, and Francois’ body slumped down. Jeffrey didn’t bother to look; he knew what the spray of moisture across the back of his neck came from. Instead, he pushed himself back up while the dust was still stinging his eyes, drawing the automatic pistol at his waist.
An Errife was pointing his rifle at Jeffrey’s head from no more than three feet away. He froze for an instant, so close to the enemy trooper that he could hear the tiny click of the firing pin. The rifle did not fire. Bad primer, Jeffrey thought, while his hand brought up the pistol. Crack. The barbarian flopped backwards. Crack. A miss, and the next one was on him, long curved knife flashing upward at his belly. Jeffrey yelled and twisted aside, clubbing at the Errife’s head with his automatic. It thumped on bone, muffled by the headcloth twisted around the mercenary’s skull. Jeffrey grabbed for his knife wrist and struck twice more with frantic strength, until the robed man slumped back against the rear wall of the trench and Jeffrey jammed the muzzle of his pistol into his stomach and pulled the trigger twice.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jeffrey saw Henri’s entrenching tool flashing again and again, used like an ax. The impacts were soft blubbery sounds, underlain by crunching.
“Cochon,” the Unionaise wheezed. “Morri, batard—”
“He is dead,” Jeffrey said. Henri wheeled, shovel raised, then let it fall. “Now let’s get out of here.”
The volume of fire was slackening, but the ululating screech of the Errife rose over it—and other voices, screaming in simple agony. The islanders liked to collect souvenirs.
“You go get things in order,” Henri said. Til man this gun. You do your job and I’ll do—”
“Jesus Christ in a starship couldn’t get any order here,” Jeffrey said. “Let’s get moving. This isn’t going to be the last battle.”
Henri stared at him for an instant, his face unreadable in the dark. “Bon,” he said at last. “Voyons.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Nothing to report, nothing to report, nothing to fucking report—you had me stuck there for three damned months.”
Gerta knocked back a shot of banana gin and followed it with a draught of beer, savoring the hot-cold wham contrast of flavors. The place had been a nobleman’s townhouse before the Chosen took Ciano and the Empire with it, and an officer’s transit station-cum-club since. Gerta and her husband were sitting on the outdoor terrace, separated from the street by a stretch of clipped grass and a low wall of whitewashed brick. It was hot with late summer, but nothing beside the sticky humidity of this time of year in the Land, and there was an awning overhead. She reached moodily for another chicken, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. At least it wasn’t rotten horsemeat, and she’d gotten rid of the body lice.