"Do you believe the war has been fought on Earth—and lost?"
Mirsky shook his head. "I believe we have taken out their orbital capability. That would make quite a show from up here—"
"Pavel, they surely can tell the difference between an orbital showdown and holocaust."
Mirsky clamped his jaw and shook his head stubbornly. "We are here to fight and take an objective. There must be a reason."
"Ask the Zampolits. We are here to spread Socialism and safeguard the future of our State and our country."
"Shit," Mirsky said, surprised at his vehemence. He hated the Zampolits. He had always hated all Zampolits wherever he had served. As usual, the company's political officer—Major Belozersky—was in the rear, issuing orders that sometimes conflicted with Mirsky's own. "Yes, fine, they've cooked the Earth. So what are we to do, abandon the fight and—what? Go home to ashes? This time, it would not be a little exercise in the schoolyard between hero and bully. It would be a flaming rubber-stamp skull and crossbones across the northern hemisphere!"
"That's what they're saying has happened. Pletnev backs them up. Surely we couldn't expect to take out their orbital defenses and have them kick their heels in the air and scream for mercy."
"They are corrupt," Mirsky said. "Weak and fearful."
"Pavel, I do not like playing your Armenian voice of reality. You, of all people, should face facts and their implications. Do not underestimate the enemy. Do weak and decadent people march ahead of you in almost every sphere?"
"Oh, shut up and let me babble," Mirsky said, cradling his head between his hands. He glanced up at the sergeant. "Get out of here," he said wearily. "Bring me good news or none at all."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant said.
"Pity we don't have any penal battalions to send on ahead to glorious sacrifice," Garabedian said. "That's how we've won wars in the past."
"Don't let Belozersky hear you say that. I have enough trouble with him—and with you—as is. We keep the bridge intact," Mirsky said. "That's final. And we make our move in the next hour."
There was no arguing with Mirsky when he used that tone of voice. Garabedian paled slightly, then pulled out a stick of stale gum and inserted it into his mouth, savoring the sugar.
Mirsky's radio clicked softly. He keyed the receiver and acknowledged. "Comrade Commander, this is Belozersky. 'Zev' wishes to speak with you. . . in person."
Mirsky swore and replied that he would be there immediately. "More shambles, I think," he said to Garabedian.
Twenty-six hours into the stalemate, the results of the survey were brought into Gerhardt's makeshift command post. The lieutenant who had conducted the survey, a thin-faced man with deep-set eyes, delivered his findings in an Appalachian drawl.
"We've peeped on every one of their positions and counted them from some distance—from the bore holes and from positions up the curve. They have six hundred or so men still alive and moving, maybe fifty or a hundred more we can't be positive about. They've lost a lot of senior officers—one general wounded or dead and several colonels. That leaves one colonel in the second chamber and two lieutenant colonels and a colonel in the first. There may be other generals—we've been hearing radio talk about 'Zev,' and 'Nev' and 'Lev.' Some of us think they're talking about three generals."
"Can you identify them?" Lanier asked.
"No, sir. They don't exactly have name badges on. But we think someone in the Russian science team might recognize a few. These troops have to be pretty highly trained, with lots of cosmonaut background, and they must have brushed up against some of the space people in the science team."
"Do you have photos of the officers?" Gerhardt asked the lieutenant.
"Yessir, most of them, pretty clear ones, too. Couple of good profile shots."
"Show them to the Russian science team members and see if we can get an identification. Garry, I think you should mediate. We'll talk to Pritikin on the Russian team—he's a straightforward fellow. We'll let one of those heavy-lifters dock—the one with Pletnev. If he or Pritikin can get through to their senior officer by radio, and if he can arrange a meeting, maybe they'll do more than just listen to reason."
"If I mediate then I should know how to speak Russian," Lanier said.
"One of our fellows can help. Rimskaya, or that German lieutenant, Rudolph—or whatever—Jaeger."
"Rimskaya's good, but perhaps not good enough for diplomatic nuances. Jaeger could be useful. But I won't take the job unless I work with the Russians directly, no insulation. I can take the ninety train into the third chamber and learn while you're arranging for Pletnev to come aboard."
"We don't have weeks, Garry."
Lanier shook his head. "It won't be that long. Hours, perhaps." He took a deep breath and leaned forward. "Do you see any reason not to put a stop to all the secrecy?"
Gerhardt thought for a moment. "Internally? I'm not sure."
"Wouldn't you like to know what all this is about?"
"Of course. I mean, I'm not sure who would authorize relaxing the restrictions."
"Kirchner was told we were no longer part of Earth's military strategy; we're on our own. Can't we assume the same is true politically?"
"We're our own masters, you mean."
"Exactly," Lanier said.
"That's a can of worms I don't even want to peek into right now."
"Well, I'll take responsibility for making one move, at least. The libraries are no longer closed. The information contained in them is available to everyone."
"Even the Russians?"
"Even the Russians, if they negotiate for peace with us," Lanier said. "I'll learn Russian, you straighten out the negotiating procedures and we'll offer them a share of all we have left."
"Kirchner won't like letting the bastards dock. And he certainly won't like making concessions."
"Who's in charge of internal security?" Lanier asked pointedly. "And do we have any choice?"
Patricia awoke to find the cabin in semidarkness. She had rolled to face the window. More than twenty kilometers below, the corridor's surface was dark and scarred. Great gashes crisscrossed the mottled ground, the edges shining dully.
She rolled to look across the cabin. Her captor lay wrapped in a net of twinkling blue and green lights. Sparks shot between each light in the net, and within, his body was enveloped in a translucent greenish fog.
She had enough weight in the cabin to feel the difference between up and down. Slipping out of her molded berth, she reached across to touch the net of lights and see if it was real. Before her fingers made contact, a voice stopped her.
"Please do not disturb." Olmy stood at the front of the cabin. Patricia looked between the figure in the couch and the Olmy that had just addressed her. "I am a partial personality, an assigned ghost. Olmy is resting, performing Talsit meditation. If you have any business with him, please allow me to substitute."
"What are you?" Patricia asked.
"An assigned ghost. While he rests, I perform any duties he may have which do not require physical activity. I have no substance. I am a projection."
"Oh." She frowned at the image. "What's he. . . doing? What's happening to him?"
"Talsit meditation is the process of being surrounded by carriers of Talsit data. His body is cleansed of impurities and his mind of obstacles to clear thought. Talsit data informs, reorganizes, criticizes the mental functions. It is a kind of dreaming."
"Are you just a recording?"
"No. I am connected with his thought processes, but in a way that does not interfere with rest."
"Where's the—" She was about to say, "boojum." She looked to the rear and saw the flat-headed, knock-kneed brown creature curled in its own berth, watching her with calm, slowly blinking eyes.
"Hello," it said musically.
Patricia swallowed and nodded. "What was your name again?"
"I have no name. I am a Frant."
"Who's piloting?"
"The ship controls itse
lf at the moment. Surely you people have craft that can do that," the Frant said, its tone admonishing.
"Yes. Of course." She turned back to the image. "Why has the corridor changed?"
"Centuries ago, there was a war here. The surface material brought into the Way—the corridor—was severely disturbed. In places you can see the Way itself."
"A war?" Patricia peered down at the mottled landscape.
"Where Jarts occupied the Way. They had traveled from gates hundreds of thousands of kilometers farther down. Those gates have since been blocked or tightly regulated. When the Axis City attempted to pass, and to regain control of the Way, the Jarts resisted. They were driven out, and this stretch of the Way, the entire distance to the Thistledown, is now blocked and deserted."
"Oh." She lay back and watched the lights twinkle around Olmy. She was exhausted. Her eyes were sandy and her throat scratchy; her chest ached and her arm and leg muscles were tense and sore. "I've been crying," she said.
"You have slept for the last twelve hours," the Frant said. "You seemed at peace while you slept. We did not disturb you."
"Thank you," she said. "This Axis City—that's where we're going?"
"Yes," the Frant said.
"What will happen to me there?"
"You will be honored," Olmy's image answered. "You are from our past, after all, and very brilliant."
"I don't like. . . fuss," Patricia said softly. "And I want to go back and help my friends. They need me."
"You are not crucial there, and we decided it was dangerous."
"I still want to return. I want you to know you are taking me against my will."
"We regret that. You will not be mistreated."
Patricia decided it was useless to argue with a ghost, assigned or otherwise. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and watched the raked and blackened landscape far below. It was difficult to feel anything for the past now, for whatever had happened before she entered the craft. Did she really want to return? Was there anything so important to her, anywhere?
Yes. Lanier. He expected help from her. She was part of his team. And Paul, her family. Dead. She felt for the letters in her pocket, and then reached for the bag containing the multi-meter, slate and processor. They had not been disturbed.
Sosnitsky was dying. Of the five corpsmen who had accompanied the battalion, two had made it into the second chamber, and they were in no mood to hide the facts from the general. One, a small, balding slight fellow with a bruise across half his face, took Mirsky aside as he approached the copse of trees
"The general has internal injuries—ruptured spleen the least among them. We don't have the blood or plasma we need, and we don't have the proper conditions for operating. He will die in an hour, maybe two. . . he's strong, but he's no superman."
Sosnitsky lay on his side in a cot made out of backpack fabric and tree limbs. He blinked twice in succession every two or three seconds, and his face was pale and damp. Mirsky kneeled beside him and Sosnitsky took his hand. The general's grip was still surprisingly strong.
"My own bones have become shrapnel, Comrade Commander," he said. "I understand neither 'Lev' nor 'Nev' made it down." He grimaced, or grinned—it was difficult to tell which—then coughed. "I am about to confer a dubious honor on you, Colonel Mirsky. We need a division commander. The only other colonel left alive is Vielgorsky, and I do not want a political officer in command of our troops. I am giving you a very big field promotion, Comrade, one that may not be approved back on Earth. But then, if what we hear is correct, on Earth nobody cares now. I have witnesses—Belozersky here is one, and I will confirm the promotion by radio to other battalion commanders before I die. So I must work fast. You are now a Lieutenant General. I give you my insignia." He passed the stars to Mirsky with his right hand, face strained by the pain. "There might be trouble with. . . others in line. But these are my wishes. I trust you, General Mirsky. If what our squadron commander says is true—and it does not seem impossible—then you must negotiate. We may be the last Russians. . . . Everyone else burns. In fire." He coughed again. "Until then, you hold your ground. But who am I to tell you what to do? You're a General now. Please tell Belozersky to bring the radio."
Belozersky passed with an angry look that had something else in it—a kind of pleading. He doesn't know how to treat me yet, Mirsky thought. The general made the announcement to his surviving staff. Belozersky gently informed him that the bore-hole transponders were inoperative, but he insisted on radioing the message anyway.
"The Americans know now that we will have a leader," he said. Minutes later, he lapsed into coma.
It took Mirsky some time to accept what had happened. He thought it best to continue as he had before, so he returned to the foundation and conferred with Garabedian.
Despite setting his deadline, Mirsky did not order any action at the end of the hour. He knew it would be suicide. He had had some vague hope of the heavy-lifter's suddenly coming through and beginning to drop, but the hope was gone now, and with it any real ambition to continue.
Major General Sosnitsky was, of course, correct.
From the very beginning it had been an extremely risky gamble. If what the enemy said was true (and surely the squadron commander Pletnev would not lie to his own men just to save his skin)—if that was all true, no victory was possible.
Garabedian approached with a tube of rations. Mirsky waved him aside. "We must eat," Garabedian said, "Comrade General."
Mirsky frowned up at him. "Why? What use is it? They will keep us here till we starve or become foxes raiding the farmer's coops. We're stuck."
Garabedian shrugged. "All right."
Mirsky turned away from his former deputy and held out his arm abruptly, making grasping motions with his hand. "Give it to me, you bastard. I don't want you eating it."
Garabedian grinned and passed him the tube.
"It's lousy," Mirsky said, squeezing the fish paste into his mouth. "Tastes like shit."
"In my hometown, we call shit sausage and fight over it," Garabedian said. "So why should you be depressed?"
"I liked Sosnitsky," Mirsky said "And then he goes and makes me a general."
Chapter Thirty-One
Lanier stood in the broad, clear luminosity of the library, face twitching. He hadn't actually sat down before one of the chromium teardrops for months. He didn't wish to, even now. The experience had not been physically unpleasant, but it seemed that all his present troubles had emerged from one of those seats—the one now festooned with inactive equipment.
Three Apple- and Uzi-armed marines stood uneasily behind him; Gerhardt had insisted they accompany Lanier, in case any of the Russian SPETSNAZ had this far infiltrated.
He walked between the seats. Like Patricia, he eschewed the cluttered seat. He stopped and turned around to survey the plaza, then sat down on the chair and flipped open the control box. At the press of his fingers, queries floating before him. The library still addressed him in clear twentieth-first-century English. Perhaps it remembered him; perhaps it knew who they were, even why they were here.
"I need to learn twenty-first-century Russian," he said. "Early twenty-first. Pre-Death. How long will that take?"
"Do you wish a reading knowledge, speaking knowledge, colloquial facility, or all of these?" the library narrator asked.
"I need speaking knowledge, colloquial, right away. I suppose the others as well, if it doesn't take much more time."
"You can be taught a command of spoken colloquial and technical Russian in two hours. An additional hour will be required to teach you to read and translate."
"Then give me all of it," he said.
"Very well. Please relax; you are a little tense. We begin first with the Cyrillic alphabet. . . .”
I am relaxing, he realized with some surprise. As the lessons developed, he slipped into the bath of knowledge with a deep mental sigh. I'm enjoying this.
He had never had a talent for languages. Nevertheless, within t
hree hours, he spoke Russian like a native Muscovite.
Muscular, balding and florid-faced squadron commander Lieutenant Colonel Sergei Alekseivich Pletnev and his four crew disembarked the tethered heavy-lifter from the aft hatch and were guided into the first dock airlock. By the agreement negotiated several hours before, the remaining heavy-lifters maintained their positions outside the bore hole.
The Russians removed their suits and were escorted by seven Apple-bearing marines across the staging area and into the communications center. Kirchner greeted him—his words translated by Lieutenant Jaeger—and explained the procedure.
"The senior officer for your men in the Stone is in our second chamber. According to a message from your Major General Sos—Sos—"
"Sosnitsky," Jaeger finished for him, translating.
"Sosnitsky has promoted an officer named Mirsky to lieutenant general. That means we have to negotiate passage across the first chamber; your comrades have us blocked off here. Our only alternative is to fly you across the axis, and I don't think anyone relishes that thought."
Pletnev listened to Lieutenant Jaeger, and nodded vigorously. "I will speak to them again," he said. "This time directly."
"You don't have seniority over them. They may think you're a traitor."
"I can only try," Pletnev said. "Perhaps I go down alone, or with my crew, and try to convince them. . . .”
"They don't seem anxious to be convinced. Your transmissions have been broadcast to the troops and they've continued fighting."
"Yes, so?" Pletnev blustered, his face becoming even redder. "We try again."
"We try again," Kirchner agreed. "First, we'll let you transmit to the first chamber. Tell them everything; what our situation is here, what you plan on doing, what happened on Earth."
"Yes, I am no idiot. That is what I will tell them." He glared at Kirchner and then offered his hand again. "You butchered us," he said.
Kirchner hesitated, then shook the hand firmly. "Your men fight bravely."
"Show me where to go now." Pickney suggested he follow her to a communications post. She pinned a wireless microphone to his lapel and tuned the equipment to a frequency used by the Russians.