Trial by Ice (27 page)

"Colonel, you don't waste any time, do you?"

Clarke handed a sheaf of papers to Lord Darcy.

Lord Darcy ran his twig thin index finger over the columns and rows. His mouth silently worded the figures and his eyes, worn with age and a simple gray, took in every count.

This Colonel is sharp, he thought. Lord Darcy liked paper. At his age the strain of staring at a digital screen was too much. But paper was gentle, smooth, soft. Like a woman’s touch after time on the front. He loved sitting down with paper and tallying his figures.

Wilhelm looked up from the document and gave one glance before continuing to read. He'd already read enough to see what the Colonel wanted him to see. But now it was a matter of making the man wait. Watch this one, he thought, ambitious he is.

"Lord Darcy," Clarke began.

Wilhelm waved his ancient claw of a hand. "Colonel, give this old man a moment to think. I like to come to my own conclusions. But do pour yourself a drink."

Clarke looked down to the paper and stepped reluctantly to the cart and poured himself a drink. He held the glass, but didn't drink.

"We don't have enough troops to win, you say?" Wilhelm asked. Almost treason. Almost. My father would have had you shot, he thought.

"That's correct."

"But we have just enough to not lose?" Wilhelm added as he tapped a column.

Clarke shifted and took a sip. "Correct."

Wilhelm sat back and crossed his arms. "I've had thirty Corps Commanders tell me we can take Lishun Delta."

"They're wrong."

"And a Colonel is right?"

"Yes, I am."

Wilhelm wanted to smile. It’d been too long since someone told him the truth. But still, the truth didn't claim territory or win wars. It was easy to see the failings of a plan, but did he have an alternative?

"If you sat here," Wilhelm patted his chair, "what would you do?"

"Press the Sigg Union for troops. They drove out the Boben on Wismar Prime. With our manpower and their technology, we could squeeze the Kadan off that planet."

A wooden framed starmap hung on the wall, mostly a neglected thing, but it showed the nearby region. A wide swath of worlds were highlighted blue and identified as the Sigg Worlds. A dark gash ran between the Sigg Union and the Vasilov Protectorate, a gravitational effect known as the Vasilov Expanse. No stargate could penetrate the inky depths—as a defensive hold, none was better.

"The Sigg." Wilhelm spat. "Upstarts! Our forefathers were assigned this sector."

"And they secured it," Clarke said.

Wilhelm snapped his eyes up to Clarke. "Colonel, I listen to you as a courtesy to your father, but don't press my hospitality. Vasilovs have a long memory."

Colonel Clarke looked at Wilhelm for a moment longer, then stared into his drink.

Wilhelm already knew all of this, his Corps Commanders couldn't hide it. Nor could he press the Dukes of Vasilov for more troops. Already each of the other worlds had committed at least a dozen Divisions. They held the stargate, they had a foothold, but for how long, he wondered. The Kadan certainly didn't seem able to dislodge them.

It had been a tenuous strike, an assault that, in hindsight, was hasty. Though it had an interesting side effect, no one had attempted to usurp Wilhelm since the war started. None of the Dukes had the power to topple the old Lord, none had the will, but mostly none dared commit the treason that might shift the power. For as Wilhelm told them, if one falls, we all fall. And, he thought, it just might be true.

But what if we could end it? Wilhelm wondered. His age was like a lens, reflecting his life, and he had no doubt that he'd be dead in under a decade. What legacy was that? Die, with an unfinished war? The thought didn't sit well.

He looked up to the Colonel. The man had no hereditary ties to the Dukes, his father was in good standing on the Council, but most of all he had earned his command. A capable man it seemed. "Can you accomplish what my commanders cannot?"

Clarke snapped his eyes up from the glass. He still hadn't taken a drink. "The Sigg Ambassador—"

"No." Wilhelm snapped. "Without the Sigg."

"It would be...difficult."

"But not impossible?"

Clarke strained his words. "No."

"The Dukes will not commit troops to this, nor can I spare any from Vasilov Prime for a fruitless assault," Wilhelm said. He stared down at the reams of paper on his desk. "But..." He picked up a sheet.

Clarke stood, rigid, as if balancing on a wire. He scarcely breathed, not a ripple spread on his glass of vodka.

"This is a thousand men, fresh ones, too," Wilhelm muttered. He let the paper fall onto the stack. "They are yours."

"A thousand?" Clarke whispered.

Three hundred thousand stood on the front on Lishun Delta. A thousand was barely enough to fill in a day’s sick roster.

"You spoke of the Sigg tactics at the War College."

"Yes, but they have a technological advantage, sir, plus they fought the Boben for the last thirty years. Our troops are…well, not of the same caliber."

Wilhelm glared. "A Vasilov trooper is the equal of any in tenacity and courage."

"Yes, but it's the force multipliers, what they lack in troops they make up for in technology and tactics."

"Well then, Colonel, you have your work cut out for you." Wilhelm plucked up the sheet and slid it across his desk. "If you give us an opening, I will order the hammer of Vasilov to descend upon our enemies. But until then, this is all you have."

Clarke picked up the paper and read the columns. "Penal Battalion?"

"I prefer the term 'Redemption Regiment’." Wilhelm sat back and watched the Colonel. "A capable man could do amazing things with those troops."

Colonel Clarke snapped his glass back and emptied it one gulp.

"Ahh, you still drink like a Vasilov. The Sigg didn't change that, eh?"

"No, sir," Clarke said with a slight cough. He read the columns once more. "May I pick my Officers?"

"And have the Dukes clamoring about a coup? No, Colonel, but you may make requests." Wilhelm stood on shaky legs and grasped the edge of his desk. He shook the hand of the young Colonel. "I'm attaching you to General von Aster, he should be receptive, at least. Do Vasilov proud."

"Thank you, Lord Darcy," Clarke said, and saluted the old man.

Wilhelm returned as crisp a salute as he could and watched Colonel Clarke march out.

He couldn't help but feel cynical about it all. He'd designed the system to be rigid, to keep stability, it just simply didn't react well to change. But yet, he felt a touch of hope. What was the worst that could happen? A penal battalion destroyed? They would have been dead men, anyway. They probably still will be.

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