“Message from Dad. Admiral Farr. We have met the enemy and they are ours.”
The Unionaise gave a soft whistle. “We hold the Passage, then?”
Jeffrey nodded. As long as the Expeditionary Force didn’t get thrown back into the sea . . . which was looking increasingly unlikely.
He flipped to the other message and prevented his mouth falling open with an effort.
“Son of a bitch.”
Henri looked at him; that hadn’t really been a curse.
“Libert. Libert has offered all the Chosen and Protégés remaining on Union or Sierran territory asylum. Union citizenship, land grants . . . the bastard’s trying to get himself enough of an army so we won’t feel like getting rid of him when this is all over.”
Henri’s face went white with rage around the nostrils and mouth. The Santander public hated Libert and his collaborationist regime almost as much as the Loyalist refugees did. The question of whether they hated him enough to fight another war was an entirely different one.
“Cheer up,” Jeffrey said. “I haven’t seen many of the Chosen surrendering yet.”
He looked down at the map table. “All we have to do is hold them. They’re out of supplies, out of fuel, out of hope.”
The remnants of the force that had marched north out of the Sierra to meet him was strung out along the upper Pada River east of Ciano, fighting its way through swarms of guerillas. The few Chosen left alive in the Empire were laagered in the forts and towns that hadn’t been overrun at the beginning of the uprising. There was nothing behind the last army of the Land but death.
“General message,” he said to the signals technician. “All we have to do is hold their first attack. Hold them. The Protégés have already started to turn on their masters. If we can hold this attack, they’ll disintegrate.”
* * *
Heinrich Hosten looked around the position. There were six of them left, all of his remaining staff. Probably thousands left alive elsewhere, scattered pockets isolated where the fury of their attack had left them deep in the Santander positions. He checked the magazine of his automatic.
The Santies were ahead, in among the trees that lined the road. Probably a platoon of them, and certainly an armored car.
Heinrich estimated distances. At least I don’t have to make any more decisions, he thought. He laughed, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten. Nothing good had come of that. Just one more. He laughed again, feeling young. Young as he had been at the beginning of the war, young and confident and happy.
“Sturm!” he shouted. “Charge!”
Knife in one hand, pistol in the other, he went forward at a pounding run with the others at his heels. Muzzle flashes winked through the twilight at him, rifles from among the trees. Then a continuous blinking flicker from the half-seen shape of the armored car.
Something hit him, spinning him around. He staggered and came on, squeezing off the last three rounds in the pistol. Had he hit someone? No way of telling. On. Another impact, somewhere in a body that felt far away. He fell, crawled forward, digging his free hand into the dirt and holding the knife tighter as his fingers went numb. Boots ahead of him, and the tip of a bayonet. Heinrich scrabbled half-erect, lunging forward, swinging the long curved knife where he knew a body must be. Something struck him between the shoulderblades, and he was floating.
Gerta. Wetness spilled out of his mouth. Nothing.
* * *
“Jesus,” the Santander soldier said, looking down at the knife that had missed his crotch by inches. “Jesus. This bastid must’ve ten holes in him and he wouldn’t fuckin’ stop. I put a whole clip into him. Jesus.”
Jeffrey Farr looked down at Heinrich’s face. The lips were still twisted in a snarl, or perhaps a smile; it was difficult to tell, with the blood. He reached down and closed the staring blue eyes.
* * *
“Sir, this is fuckin’ stupid.”
John Hosten nodded. “Yes, it is, Barrjen,” he said. “Smith, all of you, you’ve been with me a long time, but this is personal. He’s my father, not yours.”