''Like Thorpe is hot to trotting out of here.''
''Did you two shoot it out?'' Cortez asked.
''Nope. I showed him my Smart Metal™ armor, and he folded without calling to see what I had under it. Flat folded and started running.''
''The young lady down here told me you had twenty-four-inch lasers.''
''Four of them.''
Cortez's lips formed a bitter frown. ''Being abandoned as I am, I have no choice but to accept your terms, Princess Longknife.''
Kris held out her hand. The colonel took it. ''If I had my pistol with me, I'd offer it to you.''
''That pearl-handled automatic looks like a personal possession.''
''It is.''
''So long as you don't violate your parole and attempt to escape, feel free to keep it,'' Kris said.
''I'd have to be suicidal to run,'' he said, eyeing Kris's volunteers, who only now, at the sight of the handshake, were standing up from their firing positions.
Across the field, white coats stood, too. The battle was over. For some, it was lost. For some, it was won.
The wounded pleaded for succor. The dead asked only why.
43
Someone had once said that the only sight worse than a battle won … was a battle lost. Kris found that she and Cortez shared the burden of both.
Cortez organized his troops to gather most of the wounded at the upper end of the valley, close to where they fell. Kris spent a hurried hour sending all the Marine medical personnel who could be spared to them, then hunted up all the free local medics, medicine, and bandages, and sent them, too. Only then did she take a moment to begin organizing a camp for her troops.
At Peter Tzu's suggestion, that was also in this valley.
''Put yourself too close to the swamp, and the skeeters will eat you alive. There's an evening breeze off the hills that the little devils can't fly against.''
So Kris's camp ended up not too far from the colonel's camp.
Kris almost didn't post guards around her prisoners. After all, where could they run, and her Marines were exhausted. Later that night, when a couple of drunken locals, grief maddened by the loss of one's girlfriend, the other's sister, tried to take it out on the unarmed troops, Kris was glad she had.
Next pass, Captain Drago dropped a shuttle full of all the medical supplies he had, and three of mFumbo's docs, who were actually doctors. That was good, because few of the locally trained medics were prepared for the destructive power of modern weapons. For so many of the wounded they were doing their best, but it was heartbreakingly far from enough.
Sergeant Bruce organized himself a convoy and took off at full speed with a dozen volunteers and a sergeant from the Jerusalem Rifles to contact those left to guard the trucks. They loaded the medical supplies left behind, then added any food available, and were back before supper. The medical gear was much appreciated; the three docs had just about exhausted what they'd brought down. All through the afternoon and evening, they lost patients. Now, with morphine, at least no one died screaming.
While the medics fought their private battles with death, most of the rest of the volunteers were overflowing with joy or exhaustion … or both. The animals that had died that noon provided the beginnings of a victory feast. Trucks headed out to nearby farms to get greens, fruit, and other trimmings. They returned with whiskey and beer as well, and the celebration got down and serious.
They had a lot to celebrate. The volunteers' casualties had been amazingly light. Twenty-six dead and eighty-four wounded. Three Marines died holding the observation post. The two that held it to the end were severely wounded and the first on the table when the three docs set up shop. Gunny lost two dead and a dozen wounded holding his ridge. Jack's platoon in the rice paddies retrieved three dead and sent another dozen to sick bay. Kris's middle platoon added a half dozen wounded to those lost at the OP.
Kris's rump company just kept getting smaller.
Come suppertime, Kris was grabbed by Bobby Joe Fronour and Gramma Polska and steered to a long table set up a bit away from the cook fires. ''We need to talk,'' was all they said.
''What are we supposed to do with that mound of rifles and armor?'' Gramma Polska asked. ''We own it now, but there's not one living soul on this planet that knows what to do with it.''
''You've got the right to recruit anyone you want, except Colonel Cortez,'' Kris said, noticing that he'd also been ''invited'' to the senior table.
''You could do a lot worse than hiring Major Zhukov,'' he said. ''Ivanovich knows the gear and how to train soldiers in its use. Him, a few junior officers, and senior NCOs, and you'll have the start of an army.''
''If we can trust this major of yours,'' Red said. Clearly, anything Cortez said was the last thing he'd ever do.
''It's your call,'' Kris said. ''But you can't count on me being around the next time two ships show up.''
That got the entire table talking. Most of the folks at their dinner couldn't agree on anything. That they'd better do something was a solid consensus.
When the table talk was down to a dull roar, Bobby Joe turned to Kris. ''What's this United Sentients confederation your great-grampa Ray is setting up?''
Kris gave a quick explanation, careful to point out that exactly what it was—an alliance, a confederation, or a federal authority—was yet to be determined. ''The planets with reps on Pitts Hope right now are the ones who will decide it all.''
''Like we ought to be there right now,'' Red said, and spat.
''Yes, like we ought to,'' Gramma Polska said. ''We certainly should be.''
''You'll need a planetary government,'' Kris pointed out.
''We'll need a planetary government to control our own defenses,'' Bobby Joe said. ''All that armor and rifles won't be worth nothing if we don't set up some sort of militia.''
''I'm willing to command it,'' Red offered, and ducked as all at the table, except Kris and Cortez, tossed food his way.
''How long you going to be here?'' Bobby Joe asked.
''I have cargo your son bought that needs to get down here. As soon as I can do that, I've got to get back to Xanadu.''
''You opening up that can of snakes?'' Gramma Polska asked.
''Have to. Human space is expanding. They're sitting on a major set of jump points. They can't stay a Hermit Kingdom.''
Bobby Joe raised his mug of beer. ''Good luck on that one.''
The table joined in the sentiment.
* * *
The Wasp was under way five days later at one gee. The Feathered Serpent had a prize crew on board, was fueled and in need of a new name. Because of its weaker engines, it boosted for the same jump point at only half a gee. Kris intended to declare the empty troop transport forfeit as soon as they got back to Cuzco; the money would go to Panda.
Aboard the Wasp was only a single prisoner—Cortez. All his survivors, including Major Zhukov, had been offered jobs on Panda. Many had three to choose from. None turned them down.
And yes, Zhukov and several other officers and NCOs were training a National Guard for Panda … under the close watch of Gramma Polska and Red. They'd be reporting to the federal government on Panda … just as soon as Panda agreed what that government would look like and be allowed to do.
Aboard the Serpent were representatives of most of the major clans on Panda, empowered to look into membership in United Sentients. The sale of the Serpent would buy them tickets to Pitts Hope. They had no other source of funds; Thorpe had taken off with everything of value they had that wasn't too heavy to lift.
But first Kris had to see how the hornet's nest she'd knocked over on Xanadu was coming along.