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He didn't protest. Maybe like me he was remembering the battered Fritz. Maybe he was enjoying it. Maybe he was just too tired to do anything but comply. I told you that I could have won that betting pool, but circumstances rather robbed me of the opportunity.

  Sophie finished with Eric about the time it was certain that our distant gunners had the range. Tucking himself back into place, a foolish grin on his face, Eric commanded the remnants of his troops to retreat. He might have even told them to fire for effect, but if he did it was with a slap at Sophie's rump and a shy grin.

  I stayed in my tree. By now the team I was supposed to be with had probably given me up for dead. Once Eric and crew were out of the way, I'd find my own way back. It occurred to me then that I'd better find some freshly dead corpse to donate an artistic bit of blood. It always pays to advertise.

  My plan would have worked, too, but for that damn forest. Somehow, I stumbled into a gully awash with rainwater and had to sidetrack. I'd just checked my compass and was reorienting when there was a rustle to one side, slightly behind me. A terribly familiar voice said:

  "Lost, Drakanski?"

  I wheeled. There stood my partisan of the dawn before. At his side stood a someone I also knew—my woman of the tunnels. Both held guns. My senses reeled. Had I been any but a Draka, I believe I might have fainted. This was too much. I was sodden, starved, cold, and wet. My head rang from the bombardment. And once again, I was a captive . . .

  * * *

  They hustled me away with an efficiency that bespoke familiarity with these horrid woods. Then, when we were safe within a shelter of some sort, the girl made tea. She offered me a cup, along with a hunk of that very chocolate I'd stuffed into her hands moments before Eric banished the Circassians into the wilderness.

  I sipped the tea. It was strong and bitter. I suppose I must have grimaced, despite the warmth that coursed through me. The girl grinned evilly and said:

  "Too bitter, Master Covington? Let me sweeten it." Leaning forward she spat into the cup.

  As I stared at the gob of slime floating in the brown liquid, she snarled, "Drink it! It's no worse than what you did to me! We've shared body fluids, eh?"

  "Enough, Anya," the man snapped. "We are the Drakanski's friends. For now . . . "

  He must have been a powerful man among them. The vixen not only lowered her gaze, she actually poured me a fresh cup and added a bit of honey. Her gaze was acid though, and I had no doubt where I stood with her. As I sipped my tea, I gave her a cordial nod and said to the man:

  "We meet again, I see. Do you need any other messages delivered?"

  He seemed to admire my coolness, for he gave me a broken-toothed grin. "In fact, we do. How would you like to be the great hero of this battle?"

  I allowed as this idea suited me fine and he explained. The remnants of Century A holding out in Village One didn't have a chance. They could hold the ground for a while, but the main Draka forces were hard pressed and could not send relief through known routes.

  Abdul's people, however, knew some tricks even the Fritz did not. They would guide me to the Draka headquarters. Once there I would act as go-between for them and the Draka command. With luck, our forces could reach Village One in time to preserve our line.

  The plan rather pleased me. It would keep me alive and out from under whatever hell the Fritz would surely be bringing down on Eric's head. If we did pull it off, I'd be due for a commendation. Only one thing troubled me.

  "Why would you do this for us?" I asked.

  "Not for you!" The girl spat—on the floor this time. "For us! Germanski and Russki alike only wish us dead. Draka at least would keep us alive and you have given us the means to live . . . "

  Something in those fiery eyes told me she wasn't telling me the whole truth, but this at least was a lie I could live with. What had been in that message I carried to the patriarch? I'll tell you here and now, I don't know, but I found it an interesting coincidence that Security never did recapture all the former residents of Village One.

  "Very good, then," I said. "When do we start?"

  There was nothing I wanted more than to sleep, but I couldn't show a bit of fear or tiredness now. To my great and secret joy, the man shook his head.

  "Not for some hours now. The woods are filled with Germanski and even with some Drakanski and the Russki they have tamed. They seek their dead and wounded—what will they think when they don't find you?"

  I shrugged. "It's a big forest, my good man."

  "Rest now," the man ordered. "Anya and I will take turns watching over you. Do not think to escape."

  "When you've given me the best chance to aid my people?" I said with what I hoped was becoming indignation. "I should think not!"

  To tell the truth, I was happy to be there in that cave. The tea had only just kept exhaustion at bay. I had barely stripped off most of my outer gear, tucked my knife in my fist, and laid my head down on a pillow made from my folded rain cape before I was sound asleep.

  I awoke a few hours before dusk, ravenous and horny. My captors fed me well, mostly from the stores we'd given them. My other hunger shriveled and vanished when I saw how the girl Anya was glowering at me. I wondered why she had been so cooperative when we'd coupled down there in the tunnels. All I could figure was that it must have been my dashing whiskers.

  Musing on imponderables such as the workings of a woman's mind, I cleaned up, checked my gear, and got ready for the trail.

  We left as an early dusk accompanied by more rain was gathering. The chief partisan had told me to call him Abdul; his expression had been so sour that I knew he was well aware that this was our derogatory slang for all ragheads. In addition to Abdul and Anya, there were a half-dozen other partisans, all scrawny, but all as silent in the woods as ghosts.

  They set a fast pace for all they were half-starved. Their mood was good. Apparently, last night's battle had been a windfall for them. They'd scavenged weapons and food from the remnants of the Fritz encampment. I tried not to listen too closely though they politely chattered in German and English for my benefit. Devotees of Islam often follow Jewish dietary laws, but from what I could gather, long-pork was on these ragheads' menu. I wondered if they intended for me to end up in the larder at the end of this venture and tried not to tremble.

  With the skies overcast, I felt as if we were hiking through a timeless void, but a glance at my watch told me that we had been hiking for six hours when at last Abdul called a brief halt. We ate (I tried not to think what was in the sandwiches) and trudged on. When daylight came round again, we crept into some hole and slept. The next dusk, we moved on again. It was full dark when we reached the main Draka lines.

  I took over then and my name and reputation got us through to the strategoi in charge of the area. Muddied, bloodied, worn from hours of hiking, I must have cut a dashing figure, but that wasn't enough. I had to talk as I've never talked before. Most of what I told them was the truth—though I left out my role as captive.

  Freya's Tits, but I was eloquent! The chaps in charge not only listened to me, they listened to Abdul and believed in his good faith. Doubtless the fragmented messages from Village One added credence to my report. I was given a chance to wash, eat, and even rest a little, then it was Covington Coemer to the rescue with my faithful native guides giving directions.

  This is the kind of heroism I like. While Eric and the remnants of Century A—down at this point, I later learned to around half-strength—were being bombarded by furious Fritz, I rode easy and alert in a Pelast-class, light, eight-wheeled personnel carrier. Our local guides had done well by us and I couldn't really complain when one by one, they filtered off into the forest, ostensibly to scout, in reality to escape their dangerous allies.

  Anya was the first to go and I was glad. Any thoughts I'd had of acquiring her for a play toy had vanished over our two days of intimacy. She'd never sweetened to me again, but something one of the others said led me to believe that our one friendly tumble had been her way of reward
ing me for getting that mysterious message to the patriarch. Short-lived thanks, that, as I see it.

  Abdul was the last to leave us. I can still recall his sardonic face, dirt-smeared and weary as he saluted me from the edge of the wood. Then he was gone. I'm delighted to say I never saw him again.

  No one made an effort to stop him or any of the others. Like the rest of our new property, they could be herded up when the battles were fought. I had my doubts though that Security would catch Abdul. I suspected he'd be out there causing trouble for any and all until he laid down his life and became part of the soil he'd worked so valiantly—and futilely—to defend.

  Our rescue team arrived in the eleventh hour, only to be nearly shot by a wild-eyed, desperate Eric von Shrakenberg. My heroic initiative was made much of at the time. Trust Eric to neglect telling in his own account just how the Draka reinforcements happened to show up in the nick. No, he was too interested in his own personal drama to give credit where credit was due.

  Well, I know the truth and now you do, too. There's one last point on which the record needs to be set straight.

  * * *

  After the mopping up was over, Eric insisted that what remained of Century A—down to fifty from one hundred and ten after the worst of the wounded were taken out—be permitted to hold Village One. It's part and parcel of that man's incredible ego that he would insist an under half-strength Century be given such a tremendous responsibility.

  Still, I think he knew what was coming for him. He'd freed potential serfs, armed Russian madmen (I skipped the details of that as you can find them in numerous accounts), and acted even beyond the usual parameters of military initiative. Besides, he knew that the Security Directorate wanted his ass.

  By then, I'd rejoined Century A. What else could a hero who'd risked all to save his buddies' lives believably do? We'd taken over the ruins of the mosque as our headquarters. Those who weren't on guard had gathered within the shelter of the mosque's battered walls when two green-painted vehicles with the Security Directorate's badge on their sides rolled through the entrance.

  Eric blanched. His crimes had caught up with him before he had a chance to disperse news to the Domination at large of his valiant efforts to hold Village One. It looked like the end for him.

  I lit a cigarette, idly wondering if Eric had chosen a mosque as headquarters on purpose. As his own writings have shown, he does have a bit of a messiah complex. Being arrested in a holy building may have made up for the lack of local olive groves. However, calm as I seemed, I made certain my rifle was near at hand. Security can be a bit indiscriminate and I wanted to have the means of reminding them who was the real hero.

  The chiliarch who dismounted from the vehicle was neat and polished. Given how much mud, sweat, and blood I'd seen these last few days, I hated him on the spot. It's a wonder he didn't wilt under the force of Century A's collective resentment, but he just strode forward with his two pet Intervention Squad troopers—three of them into the arms of nearly two score. They must have been more insane than even dear Eric.

  None of us loved Security. Some from fear, some from resentment, and now here were just a few of their polished policemen come to seize several of our number. Eric makes out that they wanted him—and certainly they did—but they would not have settled for him alone. You don't bring in two vehicles to take away one man.

  Eric's account (one he was forced to release after Bill Dreiser, the American reporter, said more than he should have) made out that Security planned to take Eric, Dreiser himself, and one of the Russian partisans. Maybe that's true, but the rest of us knew that they'd take a sampling from Century A for good measure.

  So when Eric leveled the P-38 he carried in his waistband at the chiliarch, the rest of us were more than willing to follow suit—not for love of Eric, never that, but to save our own bonny, bright hides. Once you've been tarred with Section IV of the Internal Security Act of 1907 there's no one—hero or villain—who is safe.

  Well, I fired with the rest and I'm proud to say that my shot took out the chiliarch when Eric's went wild. No, the dramatic speech, the proof of Eric's "guts" in defiance of what was in his dossier never happened. That's trim on the Big Lie. Eric simply fired at the chiliarch in panic and missed. I'm the man who took the chiliarch down—though from the number of bullets in the body even a forensics expert would be hard-pressed to say just who killed him.

  The Intervention Squad Troopers came in for their own fatal dose of lead poisoning, but Sophie cut the throats of the serf drivers. I guess finally getting Eric had softened her heart.

  * * *

  So there's the truth, believe it if you can. I doubt you have the courage though. Those were the days when Draka were humans and you, well, you're just poor mutant scum, programmed to duty and death.

  Carry on, grandchildren. Know that from some odd Valhalla, Grandpa Coemer is looking down at you and laughing.

  Lee Allred installs fiber optic networks for the U.S. Air Force, which may involve high technology or pick-and-shovel work. He's also chaired university symposia on SF, and been named a finalist for the Sideways Award for Alternate History; he made his science fiction debut with "For the Strength of the Hills," a novella which won first place in the Writers of the Future contest for 1997.

  Here the Eurasian War draws to a close, and the Draka bring methods honed in the colonies home to the heartland of Europe.

  The Greatest Danger

  Lee Allred

  Lee Allred installs fiber optic networks for the U.S. Air Force, which may involve high technology or pick-and-shovel work. He's also chaired university symposia on SF, and been named a finalist for the Sideways Award for Alternate History; he made his science fiction debut with "For the Strength of the Hills," a novella which won first place in the Writers of the Future contest for 1997.

  Here the Eurasian War draws to a close, and the Draka bring methods honed in the colonies home to the heartland of Europe.

  Late September 1944

  St. Peter Port, Guernsey Island

  Channel Islands

  Admiral Hans Laban Verwoerd lay sprawled in the center of Cornet Castle's ancient courtyard. A heavy boot ground itself into his spine, pinning him to the rough stone flagging.

  Banners, printed with motivational slogans, hung limp in the dawn air. Verwoerd turned his head, scraping his cheek against the rough flagstones. I want gremlins around me, the nearest one read, for I am courageous.

  Verwoerd spat out a tooth chip.

  The boot in his back shifted slightly. "Service to the State," the voice above Verwoerd barked.

  "Glory to the Race," came the reply.

  Verwoerd knew that voice well.

  Brekenridge.

  * * *

  Five months earlier . . .

  Late April 1944

  Government House, Archona

  Domination of the Draka

  Verwoerd stood at attention for a long time before the Archon finally closed the manila folder marked MOST SECRET.

  "An interesting proposal, Admiral. Totally unfeasible, of course, but interesting."

  She slid it back across the desktop.

  Verwoerd studiously let it lay. He was in his late fifties, of an age old enough for the years to turn his hair steel grey, line his craggy face; young enough he could still keep trim and fit if he kept to the strenuous Draka military regimen. Even so, the length of time he'd stood in front of the Draka ruler would have challenged even a younger man.

  He continued to fix his gaze at a point centered on the window behind the Archon's desk. The window looked down the length of the Avenue of Armies. The view was distorted by the thick armorglass. Over six million serfs were in the Janissaries now. Far too many serfs had access to weapons for comfort these days. The war, of course.

  Noor leed bid, as Verwoerd's old Afrikaaner grandfather used to say.

  The Archon reopened the folder, then let it fall closed again. "I take it the Army's already turned you down. And Securit
y."

  The Army had told Verwoerd no; Security had told him Freya, no.

  "So why bring it to me?" she asked him, half-rhetorically. "You used up a lot of favors getting here. The Navy doesn't have many favors to spare." Nor, she left unspoken, did the Rationalist Party.

  Verwoerd knew fears of offending the Navy hardly kept the Archon awake nights. After all, Security Directorate's operating budget for their coastal patrol and brownwater flotillas was bigger than that for the entire bluewater Navy. But the Navy and the Rationalist Party did have close ties; most Rationalist politicians were former naval officers. Most naval cadets came from Rationalist families.

  After four years of ever-increasing casualties, war-weariness was setting in. The Rationalist minority was gaining support—worrisome for the Draka League and the Archonship; they'd held an electoral lock for the last sixty, seventy years.

  The Archon steepled her fingers.

  Abruptly, she flipped a button on her intercom. "Please tell Dominarch Heusinger I'd like to see him at his convenience. East map room." She released the button.

  She glared sharply at Verwoerd. "If you have something to say, Admiral, say it. I don't like having people cock their eyebrows at me." She paused. "Ah. My not inviting Security along?"

  A chuckle. "Admiral, anytime I send for the Dominarch, somebody from Skull House invariably comes trotting along behind."

  * * *

  The projectamap showed the ongoing campaign in western Europe. Draka forces had smashed their way across the Rhine, ready to hook southward through the Low Countries towards France. Bilious green ovals marked the contaminated areas where atomics had been used in the Rhine and in Brussels. The amphibious thrust into southern Spain had fizzled out, but the beachheads were secure, if unfortunately stationary.

  It was those Spanish beachheads that Dominarch Felix Heusinger pointed to. Heusinger had recently replaced John Erikssen as the Dominarch—Draka Army Chief of Staff. Ack-ack shrapnel over the Vistula had put Erikssen in the intensive care ward. The drive across the Rhine had been Erikssen's planning; the landings in Spain Heusinger's.