The Chosen

switched into the plain gray uniforms in their packs and holstered their weapons. The lack of those had made them feel considerably more unnatural than the foreign clothing. Gerta Hosten gave him a bland smile.

'You do the talking, Horst,' she said.

He nodded stiffly. It wasn't his specialty, airships were. On the other hand, a Unionaise general would probably be more comfortable talking to a man, and they needed this Libert. . for the moment.

'Why on earth didn't they send an infantry officer?' he asked plaintively.

'Behfel ist Behfel, Horst. This is the transport phase. They are going to send an infantry officer, once Libert's on the ground and we start sending in our own people. ''Volunteers,' you know. .'

'Who's the lucky man?'

'Heinrich Hosten.'

* * *

Horst Raske smiled blandly at the Unionaise officer. General Libert was a short, swarthy, tubby little man with a big nose. He looked slightly ridiculous in the khaki battledress of the Union Legion, down to the scarlet sash around his ample waist under the leather belt and the little tassel on his peaked cap.

The Chosen airman reminded himself that the same tubby little man had restored Union rule here when the Errife war-bands were burning and killing in the outskirts of Skingest itself, and then taken the war into their own mountains and pacified the whole island for the first time. The way he'd put down the miners' revolt on the mainland had been almost Chosen-like.

Libert abruptly sat behind the broad polished table, signaling to the staff officers and aides behind him. Raske saluted and took the seat opposite; Errife servants in white kaftans laid out coffee. He recognized the taste: Kotenberg blend, relatives of his owned land there.

'We agree,' Libert said after a moments silence.

Raske raised an eyebrow. 'That simple?'

'You charge a high price, but after the fiasco at Bassin du Sud, time is pressing.' He frowned. 'You would have done better to be more generous; the Land's interests are not served by an unfriendly government in Unionvil.'

'Nor by a premature war with Santander, which is a distinct risk if we back you fully,' Raske pointed out. 'That requires compensation, besides your gratitude.'

Libert allowed himself a small frosty smile, an echo of Raske's own. They both knew what gratitude was worth in the affairs of nations.

'Very well,' Libert said. He held a hand up, and one of the aides put a pen in it. 'Here.' He signed the documents before him.

Raske did likewise when they'd been pushed across the mahogany to him.

'When can we begin loading?' Libert said. 'And how quickly?'

'I have twenty-seven Tiger-class transports waiting.' Raske said. 'One fully equipped infantry battalion each; say, seven hundred infantry with their personal weapons and the organic crew- served machine guns and mortars. Ten hours to Bassin du Sud or vicinity, an hour at each end for turnaround, and an hour for fueling. Say, just under two flights a day; minus the freightage for artillery, ammunition, immediate rations, and ten percent for downtime-which there will be. Call it four days to land the thirty thousand troops.'

Libert nodded in satisfaction. 'Good. This is crucial; my Legionnaires and Errife regulars are the only reliable force we have in the southern Union. We should be able to get the first flight underway by sundown, don't you think?'

Raske blinked slightly. Beside him, Gerta Hosten was smiling. It looked as if they'd picked the right mule for this particular journey.

* * *

Jeffrey Farr closed his eyes. Everyone else in the room might think it was fatigue-he'd been working for ten hours straight-and he was tired. What he wanted, though, was reconnaissance.

As always, the view through his brother's eyes was a little disconcerting, even after nearly twenty years of practice. The colors were all a little off, from the difference in perceptions. And the way the view moved under someone else's control was difficult, too. Your own kept trying to linger, or to focus on something different.

At least most of the time. Right now they both had their eyes glued to the view of the dirigible through the binoculars John was holding. A few sprays of pine bough hid a little of it, but the rest was all too plain. Hundreds of soldiers in Union Legion khaki were clinging to ropes that ran to loops along its lower sides, holding it a few yards from the stretch of country road ten miles west of Bassin du Sud. It bobbled and jerked against their hold; he could see the valves on the top centerline opening and closing as it vented hydrogen. The men leaping out of the cargo doors were not in khaki. They wore the long striped and hooded kaftans of Errife warriors. Over each robe was Unionaise standard field harness and pack with canteen, entrenching tool, bayonet and cartridge pouches, but the barbarian mercenaries also tucked the sheaths of their long curved knives through the waistbelts. John swung the glasses to catch a grinning brown hawk-face as one stumbled on landing and picked himself up.

The Errife were happy; their officers had given them orders to do something they'd longed to do for generations: invade the mainland, slaughter the faranj, kill, rape, and loot.

How many? Jeffrey asked.

I think they've landed at least three thousand since dawn, maybe five. Hard to tell, they were deploying a perimeter by the time I got here.

Jeffrey thought for a moment. What chance of getting the Unionaise in Bassin du Sud to mount a counterattack on the landing zone?

Somewhere between zip and fucking none, John thought; the overtones of bitterness came through well in the mental link. They all took two days off to party when the forts in the city surrendered. Plus having a celebratory massacre of anyone they could even imagine having supported the coup.

Don't worry, Jeffrey said. If Libert's men take the town, there'll be a slaughter to make that look like a Staff College bun fight. What chance do you have of getting the locals to hold them outside the port?

Somewhere between. . no, that's not fair. We've finally gotten the ship unloaded, and there's bad terrain between here and there. Maybe we can make them break their teeth.

Slow them down, Jeffrey said. I need time, brother. Buy me time.

He opened his eyes. The space around the map table was crowded and stinging blue with the smoke of the vile tobacco Unionaise preferred. Some of the people there were Unionaise military, both the red armbands on their sleeves and the rank tabs on their collars new. Their predecessors were being tumbled into mass graves outside Unionvil's suburbs even now. The rest were politicians of various types; there were even a few women. About the only thing everyone had in common was the suspicion with which they looked at each other, and a tendency to shout and wave their fists.

'Gentlemen,' he said. A bit more sharply: 'Gentlemen!'

Relative silence fell, and the eyes swung to him. Christ, he thought. I'm a goddamned foreigner, for God's sake.

That's the point, lad. You're outside their factions, or most of them. Use it.

'Gentlemen, the situation is grave. We have defeated the uprising here in Unionvil, Borreaux, and Nanes.'

His finger traced from the northwestern coast to the high plateau of the central Union and the provinces to the east along the Santander border.

'But the rebels hold Islvert, Sanmere, Marsai on the southeast coast, and are landing troops from Errife near Bassin du Sud.'

'Are you sure?' His little friend Vincen Deshambres had ended up as a senior member of the Emergency Committee of Public Safety, which wasn't surprising at all.

'Citizen Comrade Deshambres, I'm dead certain. Troops of the Legion and Errife regulars are being shuttled across from Errif by Land dirigibles. Over ten thousand are ashore now, and they'll have the equivalent of two divisions by the end of the week.'

The shouting started again; this time it was Vincen who quieted it. 'Go on, General Farr.'

Colonel, Jeffrey thought; but then, Vincen was probably trying to impress the rest of the people around the table. He knew the politics better.