"We've got to get some order here," Jeffrey muttered.
The anarchist political officer looked at him sharply. "True order emerges spontaneously from the people, not from an authoritarian hierarchy which crushes their spirit!" De Villers began heatedly.
"The only thing emerging spontaneously from this bunch is shit and noise," Jeffrey said, leaving the man staring at him open-mouthed.
Not used to being cut off in midspeech.
"Brigadier Gerard," Jeffrey went on, to the Unionaise Loyalist officer in the car. "If you would come with me for a moment?"
Gerard stepped out of the car. The anarchist made to follow, but stopped at a look from Jeffrey. They walked a few paces into the crowd, more than enough for the ambient sound to make their voices inaudible.
"Brigadier Gerard," Jeffrey began.
"That's Citizen Comrade Brigadier Gerard," the officer said deadpan. He was a short man, broad-shouldered and muscular, with a horseman's walk-light cavalry, originally, Jeffrey remembered. About thirty-five or a little more, a few gray hairs in his neatly trimmed mustache, a wary look in his brown eyes.
"Horseshit. Look, Gerard, you should have this job. You're the senior Loyalist officer here."
"But they do not trust me," Gerard said.
"No, they don't. Better than half the professional officers went over to the rebels, I was available, and they do trust me. . a little. So I'm stuck with it. The question is, are you going to help me do what we were sent to do, or not? I'm going to do my job, whether you help or not. But if you don't, it goes from being nearly impossible to completely impossible. If I get killed, I'd like it to be in aid of something."
Gerard stared at him impassively for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "Bon," he said, holding out his hand. "Because appearances to the contrary, mon ami"-he indicated the milling mob around them-"this is the better side."
Jeffrey returned the handshake and took a map out of the case hanging from his webbing belt. "All right, here's what I want done," he said. "First, I'm going to leave you the Assault Guards-"
"You're putting me in command here?" Gerard said, surprised.
"You're now my chief of staff, and yes, you'll command this position, for what it's worth. The Assault Guards are organized, at least, and they're used to keeping civilians in line. Use them to clear the roads. Offload the artillery and send the train back north for more of everything. Meanwhile, use your. . well, troops, I suppose. . to dig in here."
He waved to either side. The narrow valley wound through a region of tumbled low hills, mostly covered in olive orchards. On either side reached sheer fault mountains, with near-vertical sides covered in scrub at the lower altitudes, cork-oak, and then pine forest higher up.
"Don't neglect the high ground. The Errife are half mountain goat themselves, and Libert knows how to use them."
"And what will you do, Citiz-General Farr?"
"I'm going to take. . what's his name?" He jerked a thumb towards the car.
"Antoine De Villers."
"Citizen Comrade De Villers and his anarchist militia down the valley and buy you the time you need to dig in."
Gerard stared, then slowly drew himself up and saluted. "I can use all the time you can find," he said sincerely.
Jeffrey smiled bleakly. "That's usually the case," he said. "Oh, and while you're at it-start preparing fallback positions up the valley as well."
Gerard nodded. De Villers finally vaulted out of the car and strode over to them, hitching at the rifle on his shoulder, his eyes darting from one soldier to the other.
"What are you gentlemen discussing?" he said. "Gentleman" was not a compliment in the government-held zone, not anymore. In some places it was a sentence of death.
"How to stop Libert," Jeffrey said. "The main force will entrench here. Your militia brigade, Citizen Comrade De Villers, will move forward to"-he looked at the map-"Vincennes."
De Villers' eyes narrowed. "You'll send us ahead as the sacrificial lambs?"
"No, I'll lead you ahead," Jeffrey said, meeting his gaze steadily. "The Committee of Public Safety has given me the command, and I lead from the front. Any questions?"
After a moment, De Villers shook his head.
"Then go see that your men have three days rations; there's hardtack and jerked beef on the last cars of that train. Then we'll get them moving south."
When De Villers had left, Gerard leaned a little closer. "My friend, I admire your choice. . but there are unlikely to be many survivors from the anarchists."
He flinched a little at Jeffrey's smile. "I'm fully aware of that, Brigadier Gerard. My strategy is intended to improve the government's chances in this war, after all."
* * *
"So."
General Libert walked around the aircraft, hands clenched behind his back. It was a biplane, a wood-framed oval fuselage covered in doped fabric, with similar wings joined by wires and struts. The Land sunburst had been hastily painted over on the wings and showed faintly through the overlay, which was the double-headed ax symbol of Libert's Nationalists. A single engine at the front drove a two-bladed wooden prop, and there was a light machine gun mounted on the upper wing over the cockpit. It smelled strongly of gasoline and the castor oil lubricant that shone on the cylinders of the little rotary engine where they protruded through the forward body. Two more like it stood nearby, swarming with technicians as the Chosen "volunteers" gave their equipment a final going-over.
"So," Libert said again. "What is the advantage over your airships?"
Gerta Hosten paused in working on her gloves. She was sweating heavily in the summer heat, her glazed leather jacket and trousers far too warm for the sea-level summer heat. Soon she'd be out of it.
"General, it's a smaller target-and much faster, about a hundred and forty miles an hour. Also more maneuverable; one of these can skim along at treetop level. Both have their uses."
"I see," Libert said thoughtfully. "Very useful for reconnaissance, if they function as specified."
"Oh, they will," Gerta said cheerfully.
The Unionaise general gave her a curt nod and strode away. She vaulted onto the lower wing and then into the cockpit, fastening the straps across her chest and checking that the goggles pushed up on her leather helmet were clean. Two Protege crewmen gripped the propeller. She checked the simple control panel, fighting down an un-Chosen gleeful grin, and worked the pedals and stick to give a final visual on the ailerons and rudder. I love these things, she thought. One good mark on John's ledger; he'd delivered the plans on request. And the Technical Research Council had improved them considerably.
"Check!" she shouted.
"Check!"
"Contact!"
"Contact!"
The Proteges spun the prop. The engine coughed, sputtered, spat acrid blue smoke, then caught with a droning roar. Gerta looked up at the wind streamer on its pole at a corner of the field and made hand signals to the ground crew. They turned the aircraft into the wind; she looked behind to check that the other two were ready. Then she swung her left hand in a circle over her head, while her right eased the throttle forward. The engine's buzz went higher, and she could feel the light fabric of the machine straining against the blocks before its wheels and the hands of the crew hanging on to tail and wing.