At least General Libert had learned to ignore her gender-she suspected he thought of Chosen as belonging to a different species, in any event. He was being polite, today, here in Unionvil. No reason not to; he'd achieved his objectives.
"In short, the Council of the Land expects me to declare war on Santander," he said dryly. "What incentives do you offer?"
Not shooting you and taking this place over directly, Gerta thought. I used every debt and favor owed me to help convince the General Staff that it wasn't cost-effective. Don't prove me wrong.
"General Libert, if you don't, and we lose this war, the Santies have a certain General Gerard waiting in the wings to replace you. With his army, now deployed along the Santander-Union frontier. I very much doubt that the Republic is going to distinguish you from us in its formal declaration of war, which should get through the House of Assembly any hour now."
Libert nodded. He looked an insignificant little lump against the splendors of carved and gilded wood in the presidential palace, beneath the high ceilings painted in allegorical frescos. The place had the air of a church, the more so since Libert had had endless processions of thanksgiving going through with incense and swarming priests; most of his popular support came from the more devout areas of the Union.
His eyes were cold and infinitely shrewd. "And if you win, Brigadier, what bargaining power or leverage do I retain?"
"You have your army," Gerta pointed out. "Expensively equipped and armed by us."
Libert stayed silent.
"And you'll have additional territory. I am authorized to offer you the entire area formerly known as the Sierra Democratica y Populara. Provided you assist to the limit of your powers in its pacification, and subject to rights of military transit, mining concessions, investment, and naval bases during and after the war. We get Santander. It's a fair exchange, considering the relative degrees of military effort."
Libert's eyebrows rose. "You offer to turn over a territory you will have conquered yourselves? Generous."
"Quid pro quo," Gerta said. Now, the question is, does Libert realize that we'd turn on him as soon as the Santies are disposed of? He was more than realistic enough, but he might not understand the absoluteness of Chosen ambition.
Libert sipped from the glass of water before him. "The Sierrans have a reputation for. . stubbornness," he said. "I have studied the histories of the old Union-Sierran wars. This may be comparable to the gift of a honeycomb, without first removing the bees and their stings."
"We intend to smoke out the bees," Gerta said. "Or to put it less poetically, we intend to depopulate the Sierra, with your assistance. Your people aren't fond of the Sierrans"-that was an understatement, if she'd ever made one-"and after the war, you can colonize with your own subjects. There will be land grants for your soldiers, estates for your officers, a virgin field for your business supporters-including intact factories, mines and buildings. We'll leave enough Sierrans for the labor camps."
"Ah." Libert's face was expressionless. "But in the meantime, the Union would need considerable support in order to undertake a foreign war so soon after our civil conflict."
"Could you be more specific?" Gerta said wearily.
"As a matter of fact, Brigadier. ."
He slid a folder across the table to her, frictionless on the polished mahogany. She opened it and fought not to choke. Oil, wheat, beef, steel, chemicals, machine tools, trucks, weapons-including tanks and aircraft.
"I'm. ." Gerta ground her teeth and fought to keep her voice normal. "I'm sure something can be arranged. But as you must appreciate, General, we need to strike now."
"That would indeed be the optimum military course," Libert said. And so you must give me what I ask, or risk unacceptable delay, followed unspoken.
"I will consult with my superiors," she said. "We must, however, have a definite answer by dawn."
Or we'll kill you and take this place over ourselves, equally unspoken and equally well understood.
Gerta rose, saluted, and walked out.
"Why do we tolerate this animal's insolence?" young Johan Hosten hissed to her as their boot heels echoed in step through the rococo elegance of the palace's halls.
"Because with Libert cooperating, we gain an additional two hundred thousand troops," she said. "Most of them are fit only for line-of-communication work, but that's still nine divisional equivalents we don't have to detach for garrison work. Plus another hundred thousand that we don't have to use to hold down the Union in our rear while we fight the Santies."
Her aide subsided into disciplined silence-disciplined, but sullen.
I'm going to enjoy our final reckoning with Libert myself, she thought. Aloud: "I'd rather have three teeth drilled than go through another negotiating session with him, that's true," she said.
"Sir. ."
Gerta looked aside. "Speak. You can't learn if you don't ask."
"Sir, you were against opening our war with Santander this early. Have you changed your mind?"
"That's irrelevant," she said. "We're committed now. Conquer or die." She sighed. "At least my next job is a straightforward combat assignment."
* * *
Air assault was no longer a radical new idea. Most of the troops filing into the dirigibles nestled in the landing cradles of the base were ordinary Protege infantry, moving with stolid patience in the cool predawn air. A few of the most important targets still rated a visit from the General Staff Commando, and she'd ended up on overall command. Gerta looked around at the faces of the officers; they seemed obscenely young. No younger than she'd been at Corona, mostly.
It's deja vu all over again, she thought to herself.
"That concludes the briefing. Are there any questions?"
"Sir, no sir!" they chorused.
Confident. That was good, as long as you didn't overdo it. Most of them had more experience than she'd had, her first trip to see the elephant. Policy had been to rotate officers through the war in the Union, as many as possible without doing too much damage to unit cohesion.
"One final thing. The Sierrans have much the same line of bluster that the animals did here, before we conquered the Empire. They have a word for it in their language. . machismo, I think it is. There's one crucial difference between the two, though."
She looked around, meeting their eyes. "The Sierrans actually mean it. They couldn't organize an orgy in a whorehouse, but they're not going to roll over at the first tap of the whip either. Don't fuck up because you expect them to run."
"Sir, yes Sir!"
As they scattered to their units she wondered briefly if they'd take the warning seriously. Probably. Most of them had enough experience not to take the legends about Chosen invincibility too literally.
"All over again," she murmured aloud.
"Sir?" her aide said.
Fairly formal considering that they were alone and that Johan Hosten was her eldest son, but they were in a military situation, not a social one. And Johan was still stiffly conscious of being an adult, just past the Test of Life. She remembered that feeling, too.
"It reminds me of the drop on Corona," she said.
Half my lifetime ago. Why do I get this feeling that I keep doing the same things over and over again, only every time it's more difficult and the results are less? All the same, down to the smell of burnt diesel oil. The tension was worse; now she knew what they were heading into. She buckled on her helmet, slung the machine-carbine and began drawing on thin, black leather gloves as they walked through the loading zone. Wood boomed under their boots as they climbed the mobile ramp to a side-door of the gondola built into the hull beneath the great gasbags. Crew dodged around them as she walked back to the main cargo bay; Horst Raske wasn't in charge this time, he was with the new aircraft carrier working-up with the Home Fleet based out of Oathtaking.