The Chosen

Christ.

His mind felt numb. Everyone he'd worked with for the past year was probably in there-most of them at least. The consul lived there, with his family. Captain Suthers. Andy Milson. .

The instructors were right. Masonry doesn't have much resistance to blast damage.

'Christ,' he said aloud.

He looked over at Lucretzia. She was looking at him.

CHAPTER FIVE

'Telegraph center under control, Captain,' the runner said.

Gerta nodded. The troops assigned to that task included several who could duplicate the 'fist' of the Imperial Navy signalmen.

She dabbed at the wound on her cheek with the back of her hand. Not serious, just a slice from a grenade fragment-you had to follow on quickly, to catch the opposition while they were still stunned from the blast. She'd been a little too quick, that was all. It just stung a little, no real damage, not worth taking time to bandage.

A deep breath. The Imperial commandant's office-he was an admiral, technically-was a segment of a wedge, one level down from the top of the tower. A window was dogged shut; the shutter was a half-meter of armorplate, but it was still a silly thing to do, weakening the structural integrity of the building that way. There was a fine Union rug, an ornate desk with several telephones-Imperial technology didn't run to efficient exchanges yet-and a smaller desk for the admiral's aide. He sprawled backward over it, most of his face missing and his brains leaking over the edge in a gelatinous puddle. The thin harsh smell of the new nitro powder was heavy in the room, under the stink of death.

Two signalers were working at the locking wheel of the window. They got it open, sliding it back like a pie- wedge of steel, and set up a heliograph.

'Send phases one and two completed on schedule,' Gerta said.

A telephone rang, three sharp clatters. She picked it up.

'Yes, Vice-Admiral del'Gaspari,' she said, holding a neckerchief over the pickup and pitching her voice low. With luck, her soprano would come across as a bad connection. 'Admiral del'Fanfani will be here shortly. Speak louder, please, I cannot-' She pushed the receiver down. It began to ring again immediately.

Her Imperial was good enough, at least, complete with Ciano upper-class accent. But she hoped-ah.

The admiral came through the door, hands bound behind him; he was a tall thin man, balding, with white walrus mustaches. His eyes were fixed and blank, the stare of a man who is rejecting all the input his senses deliver. Behind him was a short fat woman, and a dark slim girl in her mid-teens. His wife and daughter; she recognized them from the files. Half a dozen troopers followed them.

'Sir. Commandant's quarters are secure.'

Gerta nodded. The whole complex was in Chosen hands now. She looked at her watch. Twenty-seven minutes from start to finish. Amazing; it had actually gone better than planned. She'd expected it to take an hour at least.

'Good work, Sergeant.' Then, more sharply: 'Admiral del'Fanfani.'

The old man straightened and blinked. 'What is the meaning of this?' he said. 'I demand-'

Gerta gestured. A trooper slammed the butt of his rifle home over the Imperial officer's kidneys; not too hard, but the man collapsed forward, his mouth working. The Chosen commandos hauled him upward. She stepped closer.

'It is necessary that you cooperate with us,' she said. Or at least be useful. Nothing vital depended on it, but it would be handy. 'You will speak as I direct.'

The admiral drew himself up. 'Never!' he said hoarsely.

Gerta shrugged. One of the ones holding the Imperial drew her knife and raise her eyebrows.

'No, I don't think a shank will make him sufficiently cooperative,' she said. 'We'll stick with the plan.'

Intelligence had very complete dossiers on the Imperial command staff, and a fair grasp of their psychology. Imperials were odd about certain bodily functions.

One of her troopers swept a table clear of documents and oddments; they crashed to the floor with a tinkle of glass. Two more picked the daughter up and slammed her down on it, on her back.

'Papa!' she screamed, flailing and kicking her legs.

Then just screamed, as the troopers each grabbed a leg and bent them back until the knees nearly touched her shoulders. Another stepped up and grabbed the collar of her dress, running his dagger under it and slitting the heavy fabric down until it peeled off her. A few more strokes and the undergarments were cut. The soldier grinned, sliding the knife back into its sheath and unbuttoning his fly. He spat into one hand. Gerta spared them a glance-the girl was quite pretty, but female bodies did nothing for her erotically, and besides, this was business-and then turned back to the Imperial officer.

The girl's mother hit the ground with a heavy thud, her eyes rolling up in her head in a dead faint. The admiral was quivering like a racehorse in the starting gate, opening and closing his mouth.

'I will-' he began.

The girl gave a shrill cry. 'Stop,' Gerta said. The soldier did, which said a good deal for Chosen discipline.

'I will speak! Leave her alone!'

Gerta made a gesture, and the commandos released his daughter. The girl jackknifed into a fetal shrimp-curl on her side, face to knees, whimpering quietly. Gerta put a hand on the telephone.

'As long as you cooperate,' she said. 'You will speak as follows. .'

* * *

'Damn!' Jeffrey said.

There was a barricade ahead, wagons and furniture and ripped-up paving blocks. Behind it were fifty or so Imperial soldiers and some sailors in their striped jerseys and berets. They all had rifles, and there was a six-barrel gatling on a field-gun mount. He looked up at the buildings on either side. More men there. Somebody around here had some faint conception of what he was supposed to be doing, but it was probably a junior officer. He braked and began to turn the car around.

'Alto!'

Men ran out from either side, pointing rifles. Single-shot rifles, but it only took one, and there were half a dozen pointing at him-

'Here's one of the Chosen dog-suckers now!'

The Imperial seaman who shouted that and poked his bayonet close had probably never seen a Land military uniform. On the other hand, he'd probably never seen one from the Republic of Santander, either.

'Take me to your officer!' Jeffrey said, loudly and clearly. 'Immediately.'

Reflex warred with hysteria in the young man's face. Jeffrey stepped down from the car, keeping his movements brisk but not threatening, and handed Lucretzia down to the pavement. She was a little pale, but she adjusted her hat and laid her hand on his arm in fine style. That probably pulled the soldiers out of their combination of funk and bloodlust; their mental picture of an invader didn't include a young Imperial woman dressed like a lady- not quite like a lady, but they wouldn't have the social skills to pick that up. They walked behind the pair up to the barricade, not quite hustling them.

The Imperial in charge was a naval lieutenant, about nineteen, with INS Emperor Umberto on his cuff. He also had acne, a pathetic attempt at a mustache, and the fixed look of a man doing his damndest in a situation he knew was utterly beyond him.

Lucky fellow, Jeffrey thought. For now.

'Lieutenant,' he said. 'Captain Jeffrey Farr, Republic of Santander Army.'

'Captain,' the young man said, saluting. 'You will excuse me, but-'

'I understand,' Jeffrey said smoothly. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm responsible for this young lady's safety and the consulate has been destroyed.'

'The consulate? The Chosen have declared war on the Republic?'