Hope Renewed (20 page)

Below, the Colonials hesitated a crucial handful of seconds when the fire from the Civil Government troops ceased. Just long enough to let them dash back to their waiting dogs. Center unreeled numbers as the depleted battalions trotted up the slope, rallied, and cantered northward. He winced slightly. Those units had been under strength before. A lot of them were still down there in the burning grass and shattered whipstick trees, and would never leave. Long curled trumpets sounded, shriller than his own. Half the Colonials turned and started to jog back towards their dogs. The others opened fire on the retreating raiders; not many went down, but some men and dogs fell out of line.

“Reacting fast,” Raj murmured.

The Colonial commander was sending his mounted reserve forward, galloping up the hill. Two
tabor
, a little under three hundred men, with a pair of pom-poms galloping behind. Galloping guns was risky, especially on uneven ground like this. A few men, wounded or just extremely brave, had stayed behind among the dead. One rose to a knee and shot the off-lead dog of a pom-pom team. It collapsed, biting at its wounded leg. The gun slewed around, then tipped over and spun. The massive torque spun through the trail and the harness, turning the team into a thrashing pile of twisted metal and shredded meat that bounced downslope and scattered the dismounted Colonials who followed.

Raj watched the mounted Colonials approach. Numbers scrolled across his vision. The Arabs were keening as they charged. If they could prevent his men from breaking contact . . .

500 meters. 450. 400.

“Now!” he barked.

“Tenzione!”
Bartin Foley called, his clear tenor pitched a little higher to carry. The men rose from their squat to stand straddling their dogs. The long Armory rifles came up to their shoulders in smooth curves, the muzzles dead level except for the minute individual quivers as they picked their targets. The slope had concealed them, and to the enemy it must have appeared as if the heads and shoulders popped up out of nowhere.

The Colonials reacted with veteran reflexes, crouching in the saddle and sloping their scimitars forward. Their dogs bounced into a full gallop, throwing themselves forward to get through the killing zone as fast as possible.

“
Fwego!
” Foley’s sword chopped down in a bright arc.

BAM. Eighty rifles fired within a half-second of each other.
Braaaaaap.
The splatgun fired from its position in enfilade to one side.

The charging Colonials seemed to stagger. Dogs went down all across their front. It was only three-hundred-odd meters, and at that distance most of the 5th’s long-service men could hit a running man, not to mention a thousand-pound dog. Men flew out of the saddle, and rear-rank dogs leaped and twisted desperately to avoid the thrashing heaps ahead of them.

“Rear rank,
fwego
!”

BAM.

“Reload!”

“Front rank,
fwego
!”

BAM.

“Reload!”

Braaaaap. Braaaaap.

“Rear rank,
fwego
!”

BAM.

Braaaaap.
The crew worked the splatgun like loom-tenders in one of the new steam-driven factories. Its load struck like case-shot, but far faster and more accurate.

A Colonial trumpet brayed and drums sounded. The mounted Colonials withdrew, leaving their dead and wounded; the thick screen of dismounted men down in the woods ceased to wait for their comrades to bring up their dogs and started up the slope once more. Field gun shells went overhead with a ripping-canvas sound.

He’s putting in an enveloping attack,
Raj decided, feeling through the movements for the enemy commander’s mind.
He’s decided this is a sacrificial rearguard.
Half the enemy were mounted already; the dismounted thousand or so would swamp a small rearguard like this in moments, and then the Arab troopers could pour after the fleeing Civil Government soldiers. They were lighter men on fast desert-bred dogs, slender-limbed Bazenjis; they would catch what they chased, and with a two-to-one edge in numbers and more in guns the issue could not be in doubt.

“Waymanos,” Raj said.

The dogs rose under the men and turned, and the splatgun crew hitched their weapon and leaped to the saddles and limber-seats. Ten seconds later Company A was moving downslope and north at a trot that turned into a rocking gallop.

They were two hundred meters away when the dismounted Colonials crested the hill. Carbine bullets cracked around their ears; the bannerman’s staff jerked in his hand, and a man went out of the saddle with a coughing grunt.

“Don’t mask their fire,” Raj cautioned.

Foley flicked his saber to the left, and the block of men shifted course. Raj leaned forward against the rush of hot air, the banner snapping and crackling next to him. He looked back; the Colonials were re-forming on the hill, mounting up as their comrades led their dogs forward. North were flat open fields, marked with dust plumes where the retreating Civil Government battalions moved north toward his main force. A slight rise topped by a mosque and grove of cypress trees stood about a kilometer ahead.

Metal flashed there. Raj looked over his shoulder again. The Colonials were coming now, in solid blocks of mounted men; moving at a fast trot and deployed in double line abreast, for speed when they had to go into action.
Sensible.
They’d had a bloody nose twice this morning. He took a quick squint at the sun; 1100 hours. And about now . . .

There was a puff of smoke from the cypress grove ahead. A whir went by overhead, like heavy canvas being ripped in half. A malignant
crack
behind, and another puff of smoke, as the time-fused shell burst over the charging Colonials.

“Hope none of them fire short,” Bartin Foley shouted, grinning.

Raj felt himself showing teeth in response. “Take them home, Bartin,” he called.

He shifted the pressure of his knees and turned Horace directly for the left end of the formation ahead—Poplanich’s Own, four hundred men strong. Plus two batteries of 75s, now firing as fast as the gunners could ram the shells home, reckless both of the barrels and the ammunition supply. Rounds whined by overhead and burst, in the air, or throwing up fountains of dirt if the time fuse failed. He crouched over the dog’s neck and set his teeth as the battalion’s splatguns opened up; no need to look behind. Closer, and he could see the two staggered rows of men in prone-and-kneeling formation. Then rifles came up and the steady BAM . . . BAM . . . of platoon volleys started. The smoke was thick enough to half-mask the troops as he pulled up in a spurt of gravel by the battalion commander’s position.

The Colonials were closer than he expected, four hundred meters but wavering under the unexpected hail of fire.
Yes, about two thousand of them still,
Raj thought; and their artillery was coming over the hill, pompoms and field guns both.

As he watched, blocks of mounted Colonials veered to left and right, moving to flank the Civil Government blocking force. Without prompting, each battery ceased fire for an instant and heaved its guns around to deal with the new threat; the flanking forces moved farther out, but the Colonials in front seemed to disappear. Raj read their trumpet signals:
Dismount
and
At the Double.
The line shrank as the dogs crouched, then turned into a long double rank of men on foot coming forward at a uniform jog-trot.

“In a moment, Major Caztro,” Raj said.

The Major—he was a cousin on his mother’s side of the late Ehwardo Poplanich—nodded.

“The gunners aren’t happy about it,” he said.

“Better grieving than dead,” Raj said dryly, taking a drink from his canteen; the day was already very hot.

“And . . .
now!
” he said. The major relayed the order to his buglemen.

The gunners fired a last round from their weapons. He could hear one sergeant cursing as he wrenched the breechblock free and tossed it to one of his men. Then he jammed a shell backwards into the opening, stuck a length of slowmatch into the hole where the fuse would normally go, and lit it with the last of the stogie clamped between his lips.

“Fire in the hole!” the noncom shouted. It was echoed down the gun line. “Ten seconds!”

The troopers were already double-timing back to their dogs and swinging out the rear of the cypress grove around the mosque.

“Retreat by platoon columns, at the gallop!” Major Caztro shouted.

Raj looked to either side as he touched his heels to Horace’s ribs. The flanking parties were still well back, and the main Colonial force were just remounting and kicking their beasts into a gallop—which must be rather frustrating for them.

The noon sun was blinding-bright. The white dust of the road reflected its heat, and sweat rolled down his forehead out of the sodden sponge-and-cork lining of his helmet. Horace was panting, his black coat splotched with dust. Raj uncorked his canteen and rubbed a little of the water into the dog’s neck; if it went down with heat prostration, he was deeply out of luck. Another check behind: the Colonials were coming on fast, but they were staying in line and bringing up their guns with them.

Cautious, but smart, Raj decided.

Barreling in hell-for-leather might have caught him quicker, but he’d already given them the back of his hand twice. There was nothing to show that he didn’t have the battalions who’d retreated from the meeting engagement waiting at intervals to mousetrap an unwary pursuit.

Which is our margin,
he knew. The Colonials would have won a flat-out gallop.

“How far,
mi heneral
?” the major asked, swerving his dog over to Raj’s side.

“Just under seven kilometers,” he said. The nearest Colonials were half a klick back, now. “Twenty minutes at this rate.”

Caztro looked back as well. “Just long enough for them to get convinced we’re going to run all the way to Sandoral?”

“Exactly, Major.”

If everyone hasn’t bugged out when Kaltin’s men came in hell-for-leather.

“Halto!”

Raj pulled Horace to a stop, then let him crouch to the ground. His wheezing pant sounded half-desperate, and he was a strong-winded dog. Some of the others were collapsing outright; men brought buckets of water and sloshed them across the moaning, gasping animals. Raj pulled off his sweat-damp neckerchief and turned to trot for the command group below the crest of the hill.

“They’re right on my heels,” he said.

And everything looks klim-bim,
he thought, with a wave of relief so enormous that he felt slightly dizzy. The ground was good—he’d picked it himself—and Gerrin hadn’t been wasting his time. The men were spread out along the ridge, well back from the crest and invisible from the other side. Officers lay prone at the top, with their flags furled and laid flat among the scattered olives; inconspicuous rock and earth sangars had been prepared for the guns and splatguns. Back north behind him there was an aid station waiting for field surgery, and relays of men were bringing up buckets of water from the irrigation canal. Kaltin’s battalions had watered their dogs and moved up into the firing line, all but Poplanich’s Own; two more were on the far right flank, waiting still mounted. Farther north, a small force trotted away dragging brush on the end of their lariats to simulate the dust of a much larger body retreating towards Sandoral.

“And they’re coming on like there was no tomorrow,” Staenbridge said.

Raj knelt beside him and looked south. The Colonials were advancing at a round trot, deployed for action in two double-file lines with their guns and command group between.

“Message to Colonel Dinnalsyn,” Staenbridge went on. A runner bent near. “My compliments, and the first stonk should be directed at the enemy artillery, before it has a chance to deploy.”

Raj looked up and down the long curving line. “Guns?” he said.

“Splatguns forward, and the bulk of the field guns to either side.” Staenbridge pointed downslope, to a clump of greenery around a small manor house. “Masked battery there.”

Raj’s breathing slowed. “Good work keeping everything calm when Kaltin’s men came galloping in,” he said.

“He had them well in hand, and Suzette and her helpers were there with bandages and water,” Staenbridge said judiciously. “I doubt anyone in this army would dare panic while she was looking.”

Raj nodded.
Still good work, Gerrin.
He leveled his binoculars and took another swig from the canteen, remembering to follow it with a salt tablet; the last thing he needed was heat prostration.

leading elements at 2300 meters,
Center said helpfully.
closing rapidly.
A set of numbers appeared in the upper right corner of his vision, scrolling down as the enemy trotted nearer.

“Wait until their scouts stumble over us?” Staenbridge said.

“Agreed.”

Damned if I’m needed here at all, he thought ruefully. I could go take a nap.

you are the source of overall direction,
Center reproved.
you have chosen and trained competent subordinates.

I’m not the only one, Raj thought.

“Keep the initial reception low-key,” he added aloud.

A screen of scouts preceded the Colonial main body. A dozen of them came loping up the roadway toward the crest, eyes restless. Raj saw their officer half-check as he neared, looking to right and left.
What spooked him—

it is too quiet. no birds or pterosauroids except the scavengers.

Raj looked up. Huge wings circled at the limit of vision, supporting long-beaked heads and patient, hungry eyes. Slightly lower were the true birds men had brought with them from lost Earth, crows and naked-necked vultures.

Damn.
“I wonder what they do when there’s no war?” he said.

Staenbridge looked up too for an instant. “When isn’t there war?”

The Colonial scouts came closer. Their leader spurred over the crest of the rise not a hundred meters from Raj, and froze in horrified shock, his bearded mouth dropping open into an O of surprise.

Braaaap.
A splatgun fired point-blank, and the scouts went down into a tangle of kicking, howling dogs and wounded men. Troopers swarmed over them in a flurry of shots and bayonet thrusts. Several broke for the rear. Picked marksmen were stationed along the crest; they fired with slow care. One Colonial went down, another . . . and then the third, already crouched wounded over his saddle.