In Her Name

quickly disappeared down the hall, leaving Alfonso and Reza looking at each other.

“Sir,” Zevon announced quietly, “these people give me the creeps.”

Reza’s only comment was an arched eyebrow. “Let us meet the President of Erlang, then, shall we?”

Ignoring the two soldiers, Reza opened the massive door and entered the room beyond.

“Captain Gard, I presume,” Belisle’s voice boomed from behind his desk, situated in the middle of a room as large as some flight decks Reza had been on. Directly overhead was a crystal chandelier that must have weighed at least five hundred kilos and cost more than some colonies had in their vaults. The walls were adorned with shelves of books that climbed to the ceiling, which itself was glorified with a painting that appeared to depict the taming of Erlang’s forests. “So nice of you to join us.”

“Mr. President,” Reza said formally, as he and Zevon crossed the two dozen paces to Belisle’s desk. “I offer my apologies for spoiling your plans, but–”

“But?” Belisle interjected hotly. “But what? I should have you charged with reckless navigation and wanton destruction of government property, your Navy ships and Marine vehicles tearing up Helder Ridge. You were sent here to do what I want, what my government wants, and so far you aren’t measuring up very well. You’re supposed to keep the mines open, and keep those damned Mallorys at work!” The older man rose from his desk, his face redder than ever, his eyes narrowed into dark slits.

Wittmann, who had come over from the balcony with the intent of shaking Reza’s hand in welcome, shrank back behind the one individual on Erlang who wielded very close to absolute power.

“I ask for a regiment and men to do the job,” Belisle spat, “and what do I get? A stinking company of misfits!” He walked around the desk, coming face to face with Reza. The two men were about the same height, but Belisle was much paler from never having worked in the sun. His hair, gray from age, was full and perfect, perhaps too much so. His body was in good shape, although a far cry from Reza’s near-perfect form. When Belisle opened his mouth again, Reza was assaulted by the strong smell of cognac. “Who the devil do you think you are, mister? Captain Gard, I have half a mind to strip you of your rank and take your men and equipment for the Territorial Army.”

Reza’s eyes narrowed. Beside him, Zevon could feel the sudden heat from Reza’s body, and his hand lowered just enough that his palm touched the butt of the blaster that hung at his hip, his trusty rifle’s temporary replacement. Without moving his head, his eyes scoured the room for any trace of treachery.

“To attempt such a thing would be most unwise, President Belisle,” Reza said, his voice masking the sudden flames that had erupted in his blood. “As you well know, you have no direct authority over me or my Marines, and any attempt to do what you are suggesting would be met with the stiffest resistance. Further,” he took a step closer to Belisle, until their noses almost touched, “you do not seem to understand my orders, sir. They are to ensure that the flow of material from Erlang is disturbed as little as possible. They do not say to oppress the Mallorys or support the Raniers. I have been given complete authority in how to proceed.” One minor and ironic advantage of being in the Red Legion, Reza thought: unless at least an entire battalion was participating in an operation, subordinate commanders detailed to missions like this one were given a free hand in determining its outcome. It was only natural, since many officers and units did not survive the tasks assigned to them, anyway.

“Is that a threat, captain?” Belisle hissed.

“No, sir, it is a statement of fact. I wish to cooperate with you, but I will not be coerced or browbeaten. I am a Marine, my people are Marines, and we will not be used as a political tool by either you or the Mallorys.”

Belisle laughed, a coarse bark belonging to a heartless predator. “Big talk for a man who only has a couple hundred people behind him,” he sneered. His voice turned cold. “Let me tell you something, little man. I make the rules on this world, and people either play by them or they get hurt. Badly. The Mallorys would love to get their hooks into a bleeding heart do-gooder like you, but I’ll warn you now against it. You were sent here to help me to keep the mines open, and that’s what you’re going to do.”

“I believe we are agreed that keeping the mines open is the objective,” Reza said, “but what if I do not ‘play’ by your rules to do that, Mr. President?”

Belisle smiled like a hyena. “Captain, at the snap of my fingers I could have ten-thousand troops on that mountain where your beloved Marines are, and they wouldn’t be up there just to pick mushrooms. Your people wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Wittmann watched in wonder as a smile crept upon Reza’s lips.

“The view from your office is truly magnificent, Mr. President,” Reza said admiringly as he moved past Belisle and out onto the open balcony, a structure that extended a dozen meters to his left and right around the curved face of the building. His eyes scanned the view for a moment until he had found what he was looking for. “I see that your people have a fondness for history and remembrance,” he said, gesturing toward a tall mountain directly to the east of the capital that bore the inscription in enormous numbers of the dates on which the Mallorys and Raniers arrived. Below the dates, carved into the mountain face years ago, was the first scar of what was to be a giant likeness of Belisle. Today, fortunately, no workers were there. “Perhaps you also have a fondness for the future.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Belisle growled. He did not hear Zevon whispering something into his helmet microphone, but Wittmann did. “Karl,” he stuttered, using Belisle’s first name, “they’re going to–”

Whatever the mayor had intended to say was to go unsaid forever as the mountain face suddenly erupted into a boiling mass of exploding rock and burning dust, the result of a single bolt fired from one of the tanks in the Marine encampment. It took ten seconds for the sound of the detonation to reach the capital, and it was still so loud that it shook the building like rolling thunder in a gale wind.

By the time the sound had died away, the mountain lay shrouded in a black cloud of dust and smoke.

“A great pity,” Reza said, genuinely sad at having to destroy part of what had been a magnificently beautiful mountain, even after human hands had immortalized their own conceit with hammer and chisel. When the smoke cleared, there was only a smoldering crater where Belisle’s likeness was to have been.

He turned back to Belisle, who was now as pale as the inside of his mistress’s thighs. “Do not threaten me or my people again, Mr. President,” Reza said quietly, his deep voice cutting through the city’s sudden silence like the fin of a shark in dark water. “You will think on these things this night, on how you wish to solve your problems here, with or without my assistance. We will speak again tomorrow.”

He and Zevon departed, leaving Belisle and Wittmann to contemplate the ramifications of what they had just witnessed.

* * *

“I tell you, Ian, our time has come,” the man said passionately. “Surely it was a sign we saw today, that the days of the Raniers are numbered!”

There were nods of assent from people around the crowded room, visible in the low lamplight through air choked with pipe smoke and the salty smell of sweat clinging to bodies that had been laboring hard only hours before. Numbering one hundred and thirty-eight souls, they were the elected cell leaders of the Mallory Party, each of whom represented the interests of thousands of people.

But this meeting was not a normal one, by any means. It was the first time in over five years since representatives of all the groups had gathered to discuss the future of their people. The last time they had met, they had been betrayed by a young fool with a loose tongue, and many of their number, including the speaker’s father, had been arrested, tortured, and then executed as traitors by the prefecture police and Territorial Army. No event since then had warranted the risk of another such meeting. Until now.

“Perhaps the mountain was not a warning to us,” the man went on, “but to the Raniers. Perhaps the Marines–”

“They are here to help the Raniers!” a woman with a face of angry leather shouted from the other side of the gathering. They were men and women of all ages, tall and short, but all with the callused palms of those who labored for a living, and the hollowed eyes of those who lived in despair but who dreamed with hope. “Our first plan was best, to kill the Confederation dogs before they set foot on our soil. Now they’ll turn their weapons on us, on our children, to keep us in the mines, digging like rats! I say we walk away from these damned pits. Blow them up. Collapse them for good. If they want the lode, let them dig it out themselves, and their Marines be damned!”

There were angry murmurs and more nods. Some were from different people than before, and some from those who had earlier agreed with the man’s words. They were afraid, angry, and confused by the events of the day. They had known the Marines were coming, and had done their best to lay an ambush for them, believing that