Chapter 25 chapter Five

He stood in the long corridor, facing the sunlight.The tall white curtain undulated softly around him, still in the warm breeze.His long black hair was only slightly disturbed by the gentle wind.His hands clasped behind his back.His expression was worried.The still, few-cloud sky cast across the mountains, far above the fort and the city, a dazed, diffuse light on his face; and standing there, in plain black, he seemed somehow Vulnerable, like some kind of statue, or dead man propped there to deceive the hostile army. Someone is calling his name. "Zarqawi. Haridian?" "What...?" He woke up.He looked at the old man with a vaguely familiar face. "Béscia?" he heard himself say.Of course; the old man was Tessodarion Beshar.Looking older than he remembered.

He looked around and listened carefully.He heard a hum and saw a small, undecorated cabin.Ocean ship?Starship? The Orson Immananish, said a voice in his memory.Starships, clippers, ready to go... somewhere near Emplin (whatever it is).Emplin Habitat.He had to get Tessodarion Beshar to Emplin Habitat.Then he thought of the little doctor and his amazing force field machine with blue discs that cut through everything.He dug deeper, impossible without civilized training and subtle modification, and found a small loop of memory that had been stored and snatched from his brain.The room with the fiber optic lines; being thrown away because that's what he was trying to do; the explosion across the bar and into the living room; the bump, hitting his head.The rest are very vague; distant screams, being picked up and carried away.The words he heard while unconscious had no meaning.

He lay for a while, listening to what his body was telling him.No concussion.Minor injury to right kidney, many bruises, scraped knees, cuts to right hand... bridge of nose still healing. He got up and looked at the cabin again; the bare metal walls, the two beds, a small stool that Beshar had brought to sit on. "Is this a confinement room?" Besia nodded. "Yes; it's a prison." He lay back.He noticed he was wearing a throwable crew coverall.The terminal button was no longer in his ear, and the earlobe was rough and sore enough to make him suspect that the communicator hadn't been easily released when it was unplugged. "Do you have it too, or is it just me?"

"only you." "Where's the boat?" "I think we're heading to the nearest galaxy, and the ship is moving forward with the spare engine." "Which is the closest galaxy?" "Well, an inhabited planet called Musseree. Part of it is at war, a skirmish you mentioned. Apparently the ship won't be allowed to land." "Landing?" He gritted his teeth and felt the back of his head.A large bruise. "The ship can't land; it's not designed to fly in the atmosphere." "Oh," Tessodarion said. "Well, maybe they meant to keep us from going down to the surface."

"Hmm. There must be some kind of orbital station, a space station or something, right?" Beshar shrugged. "I suppose so." He looked around the cabin, making it obvious he was watching something. "What do they know about you?" He motioned to the cabin with his eyes. Beshar smiled. "They know who I am; I spoke to the captain, Charidian. They did get orders from the shipping company to turn around, but they don't know why. No one knows why. The captain can choose to wait for the humanists The fleet came to rendezvous, or headed for Musseree. He chose the latter - although I believe there was some pressure from the Reinforcement faction through the shipping company. Apparently he insisted on using the distress channel to inform the shipping company what happened to the ship things, and who I am."

"Everyone knows everything now?" "Yes. I can imagine the whole cluster knowing who the two of us really are. But the truth is, I don't think the Captain may have lost all sympathy for us." "Yes, but what happens when we get to Musseree?" "It looks like we're going to drive you away, Mr. Zarqawi," said a voice from a loudspeaker overhead. He looked at Beshar. "Hope you heard that too." "I think that might be the captain," said Beshar. "Exactly," said the man's voice. "We've also just been told that we'll have to separate before we reach Musseree Space Station." The man's voice sounded exasperated.

"Really, Captain?" "Yes, indeed, Mr. Zarqawi; I have received a military message from Musseree's Barset Alliance. They are going to take you and Mr. Besha before we connect to the space station. If we don't, They threatened to attack us, so I intend to do as they say; technically protesting, but honestly it's a relief to get rid of you. May I add that the ship that was scheduled to take you must have been hundreds of years old , and is only now considered capable of use in space. If it survives the rendezvous in the next few hours, your journey to the atmosphere of Musseree will probably be eventful. Mr. Bechar; I believe that if you and Barset's people In theory, they might let you continue with us to the Mulsory space station. Whatever you decide, sir, let me wish you a safe journey."

Beshar leaned back on the stool. "Barset," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "Why do they want us?" "They want you, Tesodarion," he said, swinging his feet off the bed to the floor.He looked uncertain. "Are they on the good side? Too many damn little wars..." "Well, in theory," Beshar said. "I think they believed that planets and machines could have souls." "Yeah, I think so," he said, standing up slowly.He relaxed his hands and moved his shoulders. "If the Mulsery space station is a neutral country, it's best for you to go there, although I guess the Balset gang wants you, not me."

He rubbed the back of his head again, trying to remember what had happened to Musseree.Musseree is exactly the kind of place where a full-scale war could start.In fact, it was a war between the Unificationists and the Humanists, between two rather old-fashioned armies of the Mussiri; Balset was on the Unification side, although there were some sort of priests in the High Command class.Why exactly they wanted Beshar, he wasn't sure, though he vaguely remembered that the priests took hero worship very seriously in some way.But perhaps they were planning to hold him for ransom when they heard that Beshar was around.

Six hours later they rendezvoused with the ancient Balset starship. "They want me?" he said. They stood by the airlock; he, Beshar, the captain of the Orson Immananish, and four figures in space suits with guns in hand.The man in the costume wore a helmet with eyepieces, through which his pale brown face was clearly visible, marked with a blue circle on his forehead.It seemed to him that the circles were actually glowing, and he wondered if it was some superstitious principle of generosity, to do the snipers a great favor. "Yes, Mr. Zarqawi," said the captain.He was a squat, bald little man.he smiles. "They want you, not Monsieur Béchar."

He looked at the four armed men. "What are they thinking?" he asked Beshar. "I don't know," Beshar admitted. He begged the four with a wave of his hand. "Why do you want me?" "Come with us, sir," said one of the men in a spacesuit, clearly not his native language, through a loudspeaker. "Please?" he said. "You mean I have a choice?" The man in the space suit looked uncomfortable.He spoke for a while, with no sound coming from the loudspeaker, before saying: "Mr. Zarqawi, this is very important. You must come. It is very important." He shook his head. "I must come," he repeated as if to himself.He turned to the captain. "Captain, sir, can I have my earring back, please?" "No," said the captain, with a blessed grin. "Get off my boat now." The boat is crowded and low-tech, and the air is warm and smells like electrical appliances.They gave him an old space suit and took him to a seat to buckle up.When they force you to wear a spacesuit inside a ship, that's a bad sign.The soldiers who took him from the clippers sat behind him.The three crew members - also in space suits - seemed suspiciously busy, giving him an uneasy feeling that the manual controls in front of them were not for emergency use. The ship's spectacular re-entry, jerking and creaking, surrounded by gas-like lights (he struggled to find out he could see out; it was crystal or glass, not a screen), with a rising roar .The air seemed to be warmer.The flickering lights, the quickened conversation among the crew, some more urgent movements and excited words, but none of it made him feel any better.The light fades, and then the sky turns from purple to blue; the ship resumes rocking. They swept into the night sky, then pierced through the clouds.Flashing lights all over the control panel look even more worrying in the dark. It was a rolling landing on some kind of runway, in a storm.Behind him, the four soldiers aboard the Orson Immananish cheered softly as the landing gear—the wheels, he thought—touched the ground.The ship rolled for a worryingly long time, then turned twice. When they finally came to a stop, all three crew members spread out in chairs, their arms hanging from the sides, staring silently at the rain-drenched night. He unbuckled his seat belt and took off his helmet.Soldiers opened the internal airlock. When they opened the outer hatch, rain, lights, trucks, chariots, and some low buildings with their backs appeared outside, and there were hundreds of people, some wearing military uniforms, some with rain-slick robes, and some trying to replace others. people holding umbrellas; all of them appear to have circle markings on their foreheads.A group of a dozen or so elderly, robed, white-haired men with rain-spattered faces walked to the bottom of the steps that connected the boats to the ground. "Please, sir," a soldier held out his hand to signal that they should go down.People with white hair and robes gathered in a narrow arrow formation at the bottom of the stairs. He stepped out and stood on the small platform in front of the stairs.The rain beat against the side of his head. There was a huge shout, and the dozen or so old people at the bottom of the stairs all bowed and knelt on one knee, kneeling in the stagnant water on the dark, wind-blown runway.A strong blue light tore through the dark night sky past the low buildings, bright flashes briefly illuminating the hills and mountains in the distance.The assembled crowd began to chant.It took him a moment to comprehend what was going on, and then he found them chanting, "Sa-ka-we! Sa-ka-we!" "Oh, no," he said to himself.Thunder rumbled among the hills. "Yeah... can you just do that to me?" "Savior……" "I really hope you don't use that word." "Oh! Oh, yes, Your Excellency Zarqawi, what are your orders?" "Ah...then," he gestured with both hands. "How about calling me sir?" "Your Excellency Zarqawi, sir; you are the predestined one! You have been seen!" The highest priest sat opposite the railway carriage, clasping his hands. "Haru—see you?" "That's right! You are our salvation, our divine reward! You were sent!" "Sent," he repeated, trying to think of words to describe what had happened to him. Shortly after he hit the ground, they turned off the floodlights.The priests surrounded him, clutching him, many hands around his shoulders, from the concrete tarmac to an armored truck; the runway lights went out, leaving only the trucks and tanks with a narrow strip of light; the cone of light The scope is limited for the protection board.He was urged to get out of the truck, to a train station, change into a blackout-screened carriage, and rattle away into the night. The carriage has no windows. "Yes! It is a tradition of our faith to look for foreign influences, for they are always greater." The High Priest—whose name he said was Naprila—made a bow. "And who could be better than a man from the Common Army?" Common Army; he had to dig that word out of memory.Commere; that's where he's from, according to Star Cluster Media, and he was Minister of Military Operations the last time he got involved in that whole crazy ball with Tesodarion Beshar.Beshar was then in charge of politics in the Common Political Department (ah, those wonderful branches!). "Common Army..." He nodded, unable to feel any more understanding. "You think I can help you?" "His Excellency Zarqawi!" said the High Priest, kneeling down from his chair to the floor again. "You are everything we believe in!" He leaned back on the cushion of the chair. "May I ask why?" "Your Excellency; your deeds are legendary! Immortal since the last Discord! Our 'leader' died prophesying that our salvation would come from 'beyond the heavens', and your name is one of mentioned; so come to us in our time of need, you must be our salvation!" "I see," he said, not understanding anything. "Okay, we'll see what we can do." "Thank you savior!" The train stopped at a station somewhere; they were escorted to an elevator and then to a set of suites that they said overlooked the city, though it was dark.The screens in the room are still off.He inspected the room; it was quite luxurious. "Yes, very well. Thank you." "Your boys are here," said the High Priest, lifting the curtain of the bedroom to reveal a half dozen or so languid young men inside, displayed on a very large bed. "This... I, uh... thanks," he said, nodding to the High Priest.He smiled at the boys, who smiled back at him. He lay awake all night on the ceremonial bed in the palace, with his hands behind his head.After a while, there was a clear "snap" in the darkness, and then a small machine the size of a human thumb appeared in the fading blue light ball. "Zarqawi?" "Hi, Sma." "listen……" "No, you're the one listening. I really want to know what the hell is going on here." "Zarqawi," Sma said through the blade missile. "That's complicated, but..." "But here I am, with a bunch of gay priests who think I can solve their military problems." "Charidian," Sma said in her charming voice. "These people have managed to incorporate belief in your military prowess into their religion. How can you deny them?" "Trust me; it's easy to do that." "Whether you like it or not, Charidian, you've become a legend to these people. They think you can do something." "Then what should I do?" "Guide them. Be their leader." "I guess that's what they want me to do. But what should I really do?" "Just that," Sma's voice said. "Lead them. Meanwhile Beshar is at the station; Musseree station. It's neutral ground for now, and he's got the right voice. Can't you see that, Zarqawi?" Sma's voice was tight. Stretched, ecstatic. "We've got them! Beshar's doing what we asked him to do, and all you have to do is..." "What is it?" "...just be yourself. Work for these people!" He shook his head. "Sma; just tell me. What on earth am I supposed to do?" He heard Simma sigh. "Win the war, Zarqawi. We're backing up the army you're serving. Maybe if they win this, and Beshar is on the winning side, we—maybe—can turn the cluster around." He heard her take a deep breath. "Zarqawi, we need this battle. In a way, we're limited in what we can do, but we need you to get the whole thing over with. Win the war for them, and we might get it together. I mean it. " "Well, you mean it," he said to the scout missile. "But I've looked at the map pretty quickly and these guys are in a mess of shit. It really takes a miracle if they're going to win." "Just try, Charidian. Please." "Is there any assistance I can get?" "Uh... what do you mean?" "Information, Sma; if you could help keep an eye on the enemy's—" "Oh, no, Charedian. I'm sorry, but we can't." "What?" he said aloud, sitting up in bed. "I'm sorry, Zarqawi; I really am, but we have to agree to that. It's a very tricky thing, we have to strictly keep our hands off. That missile shouldn't even be there; it's going to leave soon .” "So I'm on my own?" "I'm sorry," Sma said. "You're sorry!" he said, throwing himself back on the bed.
You don't have to be a soldier, he remembered what Sma had said some time ago. "You don't have to be a fucking soldier," he whispered to himself, pulling his hair up at the nape of his neck and slipping on the little hidden tie.It was dawn now; he patted his ponytail and looked out at the misty city through thick, twisted glass, just waking up to the iron-red mountains and blue-tinged sky.He looked at the overly embellished robes at the far end of the room, and the priests hoped he'd put them on, so they reluctantly put them on. The Alliance and its rivals, the Empire of Grassin, had been at war on and off for six hundred years, vying for their modest subcontinent, until the strange floating ships of the rest of the star cluster came calling a century ago.Even then they were behind the rest of the Mussirui community, which was decades ahead of technology and even—arguably— centuries ahead of morality and politics.Before their contact, the natives used crossbows to follow muzzle-loading cannons.A century later they had chariots; lots and lots of tanks.Tanks and long-range artillery, trucks and a handful of very ineffective aircraft.Both parties do not have a receiving system, some of which are purchased, but most of them are contributed by some of the most advanced societies in the star cluster.The Alliance has a six- or seven-handed spaceship; the Empire has a litter of missiles that are generally deemed unusable, and probably politically useless, since they're supposed to be armed with nuclear warheads.The public opinion of the star cluster can tolerate the technological progress of this continuous and meaningless war, as long as the men, women and children die in small and steady groups, but the thought of a million people being incinerated at the same time, in the city It would be unbearable if Li was blown up by a nuclear bomb. The Empire is winning a traditional war, and after two centuries of spending, they may only be left with steam.But fleeing civilians filled the roads, carts full of houses dangled from bush to bush, chariots shoveled through rice fields, and drones dropped bombs to clear slums. The Balian retreated across the plain and into the mountains, and the besieged troops retreated under pressure from the Empire's motorized cavalry. After he put on his clothes, he stepped directly into the map room; several sleepy staff officers jumped up and stood at attention, rubbing their sleepy eyes.The maps this morning weren't much better than they had been the night before, but he stood there watching them for a while, gauging their position with the Imperial forces, asking the officers questions, trying to gauge how accurate their intelligence was. , and what is the morale of your troops. Officers seemed to know the enemy's subordinates more than they knew how their own subordinates felt. He nodded to himself, scanned all the maps, and left to have breakfast with Naprila and the other priests.He dragged them all back to the map room later—they usually retreat to their retreats to meditate—and asked more questions. "I want to be like these guys' uniforms too," he said, pointing to a low-ranking regular Army officer in the map room. "But, Your Excellency Zarqawi!" said Naprila, worried. "That would belittle your dignity!" "And these only get in the way," he said, gesturing to his long, heavy robes. "I want to go to the front line to observe for myself." "But, sir, this is the holy citadel; here all our intelligence goes, and all our people's prayers are directed here." "Naprila," he said, putting his hand on his shoulder. "I know; but I've got to see things for myself. I'm only going once, remember?" He looked around at the displeased looks on the faces of the other High Priests. "I'm sure you've done it in the same situation in the past," he told them, straight-faced. "But I'm new here, and I've got to find new ways to find out what you probably already know." He turned back to Naprila. "I want my own plane, just a modified reconnaissance plane. It comes with two fighter planes for escort." The priests thought taking trains and trucks to a spaceport thirty kilometers away was the most daring act of paganism; and the fact that he wanted to fly around the whole subcontinent made them think he was crazy. But that's exactly what he did the next few days.It happened to be a period of some sort of lull in fighting—the Alliance's troops were withdrawing, and the Imperial's were consolidating—which made his job a little easier.He wore a plain uniform, without even the half-dozen identification metal ribbons worn by most junior officers.He addressed the most uninteresting, demoralized and downright pedantic field generals and colonels, to staff officers, to soldiers on foot and tank crews, cooks, supplies, orderlies and doctors.Most of the time he needs an interpreter; only the people at the top speak Cluster Common, but he feels soldiers feel closer to people who speak different languages ​​and ask them questions, unlike those who share the same language but always just give orders . In the first week, he visited various major military airports to test the feelings and opinions of the Air Force staff.In every squadron, legion, and fortress there is a figurehead, always vigilant priest, the only one inclined to ignore them.The priests he first encountered had little to say, and there was never anything interesting in what he saw afterwards that could add to the initial ceremonial greeting.He decided after the first two days that the main problem with the priests lay with them. "Nastria first!" Naprila shouted. "But there are more than a dozen important places of faith there! Not only that! You suggest that we surrender without a fight?" "When we win the war, you'll be able to retake the temple, and perhaps store a lot of new treasure in it. Whether we try to defend it or not, it will fall, and they may be damaged in battle. But retreat Just keep them alive. And there's going to be crazy stretching of their supply lines. Listen; the rainy season is coming, how long? A month from now? Then we'll be ready to counterattack, and their supply problems will be even worse. They The wetlands in the back mean they can't transport the way they're supposed to, and they can't retreat when we attack. Knapp, old man; it's perfect, trust me. If I were the opposing commander and saw a piece like this The ground is handed over, and I won't even come closer for a million kilometers. But the boys of the Imperial Army will, because the duke doesn't let them have another choice. But they will know that it is a trap. It will affect morale very much. " "I don't know, I don't know..." Naprella shook her head, put her hands to her mouth, and rubbed her lower lip as she looked at the map worriedly. (No, you don't know, he thought to himself, watching the man's tense body language. You guys haven't had any useful information in generations, buddy.) "It's gotta do it," he said. "The retreat should start today." He turned to another map. "Air Force; stop bombing and strafing roads. Give pilots two days off before raiding refineries, over here." He pointed. "Massive attack; use everything that can fly that distance." "But if we stop attacking the roads..." "They'll just be stuffed with more refugees," he told the man. "That's more of a drag on the Imperial Army than our planes. I do want those bridges blown up, though." He tapped a couple of bridges over the river.He looked at Naprila mysteriously. "Or did your guys sign some kind of agreement not to bomb bridges or something?" "Blowing up bridges is always considered a hindrance to a counterattack, and... a waste," the priest said displeased. "Well, these three still have to be removed," he tapped the surface of the map. "That, combined with airstrikes on the refineries, should disrupt their oil routes," he said, clasping and rubbing his hands. "But we think the Imperial Army is sitting on a very large stockpile of oil," Naprila said, looking very unhappy. "Even if they have," he told the High Priest. "Commanders will also move more carefully, knowing that their supplies are being disrupted; they are careful. But I bet they don't have the supplies you think they have; they probably think you have more stock than you actually do, plus This attack, they're going to need the funds very quickly... believe me, if the refinery air strike turns out as I hope, they might panic a little bit." Naprella stared downcastly at the map, rubbing her cheeks and looking at the map pitifully. "That all sounds..." he began. "...very...adventurous." The High Priest attached a certain degree of disgust and contempt to the word.This might have been amusing under other circumstances. With great protest, the high priests were persuaded that they had to give up the precious province, and many of its important religious sites, to the enemy; they also agreed to launch an air strike on the refinery. He visited retreating soldiers, as well as the main airfield, which would play a role in the airstrike on the refinery.He then spent several days traveling by truck across the mountains, inspecting defensive positions.There was a dam at the start of a valley that, if the Imperial Army could get that far, might be a useful trap (he thought of the concrete island, the weeping girl, and the chair).As he drove down the rough road between the hill forts, he saw a hundred or so planes passing overhead, flying outward over seemingly peaceful fields, with bombs under their wings. The refinery raids were costly; almost a quarter of the planes never came back. But the Imperial Army's advance stopped the next day.He'd hoped they'd move on a bit—their supplies didn't come directly from the refinery, so they had a week or so to go—but they did the sensible thing and decided to stop there. He flew to the spaceport, and the lumbering spaceship looked even more dangerously dilapidated in the daylight—slowly being repaired and repaired for someday.He spoke to the technician and walked around the ancient contraption.He learned that the ship had a name: the Palian Triumph. "That's called decapitation," he told the priests. "The Imperial Court goes to Lake Willis at the start of every second season; High Command briefs them. We drop the Triumph on them the day the General Staff arrives." The priest looked puzzled. "Drop what, Zakawig? A commando? The Triumph can only carry at most..." "No, no," he said. "And when I say drop it, I mean use it as a bomb. We fly it into space and come back and land on Lake Palace. That's a full four hundred metric tons; even at a tenth of the speed of sound, it It can also be detonated like a small nuclear bomb, and we can wipe out the entire palace and staff in one go. We immediately ask the Commons for a truce. If we are lucky, we can cause great civil unrest, and the Senate will probably take the opportunity Seize real power; the Army will want to take over its own rule, and may even have to go back to fighting a civil war. Junior rulers should also complicate the situation beautifully in terms of confrontation for power." "But," Naprella said. "That means destroying the Triumph, doesn't it?" The other priests shook their heads. "Well, I think it's hard to not leave a little bit of damage if it hits at a speed of four or five hundred kilometers per second." "But Lord Zarqawi!" Naprila roared, making people feel like a small nuclear bomb detonated on his body. "This is ridiculous! You can't do this! The Triumph is a symbol of our... hope! All the people are looking forward to us..." He smiled, and let the priest go on chatting for a while.He was pretty sure that if things turned out badly, the priests planned to use the Reign of Triumph as an escape route. He waited until Naprila was almost finished, then said, "I understand; but this ship is on its final voyage, folks. I've spoken to the mechanics and the pilot; that thing is a deathtrap. I can come to This side really has more luck than anything else." He paused, watching the men with the blue circles on their foreheads stare at each other.The whispers increased.He felt like smiling.That word planted the fear of God in their hearts. "I'm sorry, but that's the only thing Triumph does best." He smiled. "And that does make for a triumph, too." He got them to ponder the concept of hypersonic dive bombing (no, no suicide missions needed; the ship's computer is perfectly capable of driving it to take off and land straight away), ditching symbols (many plebs and factory workers would care a lot about their high tech stupidity Scrapped) and decapitation (probably the most worrying idea of ​​the high priests; and when they propose a truce, the priests have to strongly imply that they used one of their own missiles, not a spaceship, and then pretend that there are More to come. While it's not hard to disprove it, especially if the most experienced comm in the world chooses to tell the Empire exactly what happened, it would be worrisome for anyone on the other side to try to understand the truth. Besides, They could have just left the city.) Meanwhile he visited more Army units. The Imperial Army resumed its advance, but this time more slowly.He withdrew his troops into almost hills, burned several unharvested fields, and leveled the villages and towns behind them.Whenever they abandon an airport, they put bombs and timers for days under the runways, and dig a bunch of holes to make them look like they're full of bombs. He personally supervised the defensive formations in the hilly area, and continued to visit airfields, regional headquarters, and combat units.He also continued to press the High Priests to at least consider using spaceships for decapitation. Lying down to sleep one day in an old castle--which became the command post for this part of the front--he found himself so busy (it was just past dusk, the sky burst into light on the treetop skyline, The air shakes with the sound of the bombing).Busy and -- he had to admit, putting the last stack of reports on the ground under the camp bed, turning off the lights and falling asleep almost immediately -- happy. Two weeks after his arrival, then three weeks passed; the little news from outside seemed to show that nothing had happened at all.He suspects there's a lot of tight-fisted politics going on.Beshar's name was mentioned; he was still on the Mulsory space station, in contact with various groups.No news from civilization or anything related.He wondered if they'd forgotten things; maybe they'd forgotten him, left him here to live forever in the mad war between the priests and the Empire. The defenses grew stronger; soldiers of the Alliance dug and built, but mostly without fire.The Imperial Army finally stopped in the hilly area.He asked the air force to rush the supply line and the front line units, and then hit the nearest airfield. "There are too many soldiers deployed here around the city. The best troops should be up front. The attack should start soon, and if we can counterattack successfully--if they try to defeat us, it will be very successful, because their We're running out of reserves -- then we need these elite squads to put in where they can contribute." "There is a problem of civilian unrest in the city," Naprila said.He looked old and tired. "Leave a few units and keep them on the street so people don't forget they're here. But damn it, Naprila, most of the guys stay in barracks the whole time. They need to go to the front. I There just happens to be a place for them, look..." In fact, he hopes to lure the Imperial Army to launch a war of annihilation, and the city is the bait.He sent his first-class soldiers to the mountain passes.The priests looked at how much territory they had lost now, and the experimental site gave permission to prepare for the decapitation operation; the Union Triumph will be ready for the final voyage, but unless the situation is really critical, it will not be used.He promised that he would first try to win the war the traditional way. The attack came; forty days after his arrival in Musseree, the Imperial Army broke into the forests of the Hill Country.The priests began to panic.He ordered the air force to attack the main army's supply lines, not those of the frontline troops.The defensive line finally collapsed; units retreated, bridges were blown.As the hills lead to the mountains, the Imperial Army gradually concentrates and begins to pour into the valleys.The dam trick failed this time; the dynamite placed underneath failed to detonate.He was forced to remove the two elite units defending the canyon pass. "But what if we leave the city?" The priests looked shocked.Their eyes are as empty as the blue circle on their foreheads.The Imperial Army trod slowly across the valley, pushing their soldiers back.He continues to tell them things will get better, but it just keeps getting worse.他们没有别的办法了；一切彷佛希望尽失，也太迟得无法夺回他们自己的土地。到了最后一晚，风从山区吹向城市时，遥远的炮火声清晰可闻。 “要是他们自认可以，他们会尝试夺取巴尔赛特市，”他说。“那是个象征。好吧，但那其实没有什么军事重要性。他们会紧抓住它。我们就让这么多部队通过，然后封死隘口；这里，”他说，敲着地图。祭司们摇着头。 “各位，我们尚未失去秩序！我们只是在撤退。但他们的状况比我们糟得多，损失更惨重；每挺进一公尺都在让他们流血。而且他们的补给线也继续在延长。我们必须在他们开始考虑撤回的时点攻击他们，然后给他们看见一个可能──一个似乎成真的可能──一场歼灭战。但那不会让我们被歼灭；被歼灭的是它们。”他环顾众人。“相信我；那会有用的。你们也许得离开堡垒一阵子，但等你们回来时，我保证那将是凯旋归来。” 他们脸上看不出信服，不过也许是震惊得无力抵抗──他们让他这么做了。 那花了好几天，帝国陆军挣扎爬上山谷，霸联的部队抵抗、撤退、抵抗再撤退，然后最后──等待帝国士兵疲惫的征兆，还有战车、卡车该移动时总是静止，缺油而饥肠辘辘──他想要是他指挥着另一边，他一定会考虑停止。当晚，通往城市的隘口的许多士兵离开了阵地。到了早上战斗继续，霸联的部队却突如其来撤军，在即将被辗过之前逃跑了。帝国指挥总部一位满腹困惑、激动但仍然精疲力竭、担忧的将军用战地望远镜望着远处的卡车队，缓缓爬下隘口往城市前进，偶尔遭受帝国战机扫射。侦察情报显示异教徒祭司正在准备离开堡垒。间谍指出太空船正在准备进行某种特殊任务。 将军发电呼叫宫廷总部。朝城市推进的命令第二天下达了。 他看着神情持续紧张的祭司们离开堡垒地下的火车站。他最后必须劝阻他们先别下斩首攻击的命令。让我先试试，他对他们说。 他们根本无法理解彼此。 祭司们望着沦丧的疆土，以及他们离开的一小块地，心想一切已经结束了。他看着自己大体仍没什么损伤的师，精力充沛的单位，他那些精英队伍全部部署在应该在的地方，伸出刀子插入过度延伸、累坏的敌军的身躯，准备好切下去……并想着那会是帝国的末日。 火车开动，而且──难以抗拒地──他愉快地挥手。最高祭司们离开最好，躲到下个山脉里的庞大修道院。他跑回楼上的地图室，看看事情进展如何。 他等几个分团通过隘口，然后下令原本防守的单位──大多已经撤入隘口周围的森林，根本没有从隘口下来──重新夺回它。城市跟堡垒受到轰炸，不过效果不彰；霸联的战机击落了大多数的轰炸机。反攻终于发起。他先从精英部队开始，然后将剩余的带进来。空军最初几天仍集中攻击补给线，接着转到了前线。帝国陆军摇摆、阵线卷曲，宛如储存在某处的水好像有能力，但却迟疑地无法泼洒过该死的整座山区一样（而那股涓流继续干涸，仍朝城市推进，离开隘口、一路奋战过森林跟原野，好抵达他们仍然希望赢得战争的闪亮目标……），接着阵线退了，士兵们太过劳累，弹药跟油料补给太过分散。 隘口仍在霸联的掌控中，他们缓缓地再次往下推进，如此一来帝国士兵一定觉得他们永远都在朝山上开火，前进沉重又危险地步履艰难，撤退则是那么的容易。 撤退化为一个接一个峡谷的大溃逃。他坚持让反攻继续；祭司们拍电报说应该布署更多军队阻止两个帝国师进袭首都。他忽略他们。那两个残破的师剩下的人数之少，连拼凑一个师都几乎不够，而且仍持续地遭受腐蚀。他们也许能抵达城市，但在那之后他们就无处可去了。他想能接受他们最终的投降一定是件令人满意的事。 降雨落在山脉另一边；当浑身脏污的帝国部队通过湿淋淋的丛林时，他们的空军也经常被坏天气给困在地上，霸联的飞机则不受影响地轰炸跟扫射他们。 人们逃往城市；火炮在附近轰然交手。打穿山区的两个师的残部绝望地朝着目标奋战。山脉另一端远方的平原上，其余的帝国军正用最快的速度撤退。那些师被困在先纳斯崔省，无法从背后的泥沼撤离，于是全体投降了。 两个师剩余的部分踏入巴尔赛特市的那天，帝国宫廷发讯息要求和平停火。他们有十来辆战车跟一千人，但将火炮留在田野里了，早已弹药断绝。逃入城市那几千人在堡垒宽敞的阅兵场避难。他从远处看着他们川流不息，通过高耸城墙的城门。 他本来打算那天弃守堡垒的──祭司们对他尖叫了好几天，大多参谋也已经离开──但他现在手上握着刚从帝国宫廷收到的讯息抄本。 何况，两个霸联师也正要离开山区，前来支援城市。 他发电给祭司们。他们决定接受停火协议；只要帝国陆军撤到战争开始前的位置，战斗就随即告终。接着是更多几通电文交换；他任祭司们跟帝国宫廷去处理细节。他抵达后以来头一遭脱下制服，身着平民的衣服。他带着一些望远镜踏上高塔，看着远处敌军战车的小斑点驶过街道。堡垒城门关上了。 到了中午，休战协定旋被宣布。堡垒城门外疲惫的帝国士兵纷纷投宿至附近的酒吧跟旅馆。 他站在长长的走廊里，面对着阳光。高而白的帷幕在他周围柔软地如浪起伏，在温暖微风中十分安静。他黑色的长发只被温和的风些许扰起。他的手在背后交握。他的神情忧心忡忡。寂静、遍布少量云朵的天空跨越山脉、在堡垒跟城市上方远处，朝他的脸抛来茫然、弥漫的光亮；而他这么站在那里，身着素色黑衣，看来不知如何显得好脆弱，犹如某种塑像，或者支撑在那里欺骗敌方大军的死人。 有人正在叫他的名字。 "Zarqawi?" 他转身，眼睛惊讶地瞪大。“斯卡芬─阿姆提斯考！真是让人意想不到备感光荣。斯玛这些日子放你独自出来了，还是她快要这么做了啊？”他看着堡垒的长走廊尽头。 “日安，夏瑞狄恩，”机器人说，飘向他。“斯玛小姐正搭乘座舱组件过来。” “小狄又好吗？”他坐在靠着墙边的一只小凳上，面对挂着白色窗帘的一长排窗户。“消息是什么？” “我想大多都是好消息，”斯卡芬─阿姆提斯考说，飘到与他脸等高之处。“贝夏先生正在前往恩普林栖息地，星团两个主要的政治团体会在那里举行高峰会议。战争的危险显然正在消退。” “好吧，这真美好不是吗，”他说，往后靠，手摆在脖子后面。“这里和平了；那里和平了。”他斜眼看着机器人，头歪向一旁。“不过，机器人，你似乎没有被喜悦跟快乐淹没的迹象。你好像──容我这么说吧？──明显郁闷不乐。怎么回事？电量不足吗？” 机器沉默了一两秒。接着她说：“我想斯玛小姐的座舱组件准备要降落了。我们到屋顶上去好吗？” 他面露困惑一阵子，接着点头，机灵地站起来、双手拍合，示意着前方。“当然；我们走吧。” 他们踏进他的公寓。他觉得斯玛不知为何也彷佛有点压抑。他本想像她会激动地喋喋不休，因为星团里看来终究不会爆发战争了。 “怎么回事，小狄？”他问，替她倒了杯饮料。她在房间前的百叶窗来回踱步。她接过饮料，但似乎没兴趣喝。她转向他，那椭圆形的脸有着……他不确定。但那让他的肚子某处感到一股寒意。 “你得离开，夏瑞狄恩，”她说。 “离开？什么时候？” “现在；今天晚上。最迟是明晚。” 他满脸疑惑，接着大笑起来。“好吧；我承认，那些男童开始显得很吸引人，不过……” “不是，”斯玛说。“我是认真的，夏瑞狄恩。你必须离开。” He shook his head. “我办不到。休战协议无法保证能维持下去。他们可能还会需要我。” “协议不会维持的，”斯玛对他说，撇开头。“至少只靠一边不会。”她将杯子搁在架上。 “啥？”他说。他瞥眼看着机器人，后者显得毫无评论。“狄赛特，你到底在讲什么？” “扎卡维，”她说，眼睛快速眨动；她尝试看着他。“交易已经结束；你得离开。” He glared at her. “什么交易，狄赛特？”他柔声说。 “人类主义者派系……提供了些低等级的协助给帝国，”她说，踏向一面墙，接着转身，没对着他而是对地毯开口。“他们……实质上对这里发生的事加以投资。整个交易的精细结构都建立在倚赖帝国于此地的胜利上。”她停下来，看了眼机器人，再度转开头。“而这正是所有人同意会发生的结果，直到几天以前。” “所以，”他缓缓说，推开自己的饮料，坐在一张看来像王位的大椅上。“我搞垮帝国的棋局时也弄乱了很多事，是不是？” “是的，”斯玛说，咽下口水。“是的，你确实是。我很遗憾。我知道那很疯狂，但事情跟人们在这里就是如此。人类主义者现在四分五裂；他们里头的小派系会愿意找任何借口摆脱交易，无论是多么微不足道的理由。他们可能刚好有能力置换掉整件事。我们不能冒这个险。帝国必须获胜。” 他坐着，盯着面前的小桌子。he sighed. “我懂了。而我该做的就只是离开？” “是的；跟我们走。” “之后会发生什么事？” “最高祭司将被一个帝国突击队绑架，由人类主义者控制的飞机运送。堡垒将由外头的士兵占领；战地指挥部已经在策画空袭。那应该会死伤惨重。要是有必要，武装部队忽略最高祭司阶级要求放下武器的命令，霸联所有的飞机、战车、火炮跟卡车都会失去功能。一旦他们看见几架飞机跟战车被从太空发射的雷射所摧毁，军队的战斗意志应该就会沦陷了。” 斯玛停止踱步，走过来站在他面前，在那张小桌的对面。“那在明天清晨就会展开。那一定会血流成河的，真的，扎卡维。你最好现在就走；那对你最好。”他听见她呼气。“你所做的……实在非常杰出，夏瑞狄恩。那成功了，你办到了；你将贝夏弄出来，让他……无论从什么动机被激励。我们很感激，而且那并不容易……” 他举起一只手停止她。他听见她的叹息声。他从小桌抬头，直盯着她的脸。“我不能直接离开。有几件事我得先做。我宁愿你们先走再回来；明早把我接走。”他摇摇头。“我不能遗弃他们，直到──” 斯玛张开嘴，然后闭上，看了眼机器人。“好吧；我们明天回来。扎卡维，我──” “没关系，狄赛特，”他平静地打断，缓缓站了起来。他望着她的双眼；她不得不将头转开。“事情会如你所说的。再见了。”他没有伸出手。 斯玛踏向门口；机器人尾随她。 女子回头。他点了头；她迟疑，彷佛觉得该说些什么，但还是走了。 机器人也停下来。“扎卡维，”它说。“我只想补充──” “滚出去！”他尖叫，然后用一个动作转身、扫动、抓住小桌双腿间并抛向他认为机器人可能飘着的地方。桌子从看不见的力场弹开，掉到地上砸碎；机器人赶紧溜出去，门也关上了。 他站在那里瞪着残骸好一段时间。