“Miss?” Lefarge started slightly. It was old Terrance Gilbert, the proprietor, a CPO on one of Cindy’s dad’s pigboats back when. He gave the young woman a look of fond pride and Lefarge one of grudging approval. “Will there be anything else, Miss?”
“Not right now, Chief,” Cindy said. “Happy New Year.”
“And to you, Miss. Sir.” Lefarge was in uniform tonight, the major’s leaves on his shoulders; the owner nodded before he disappeared into the throng.
“Finish your drink, darling,” Cindy said.
He sipped. “What was the news, honey?” he asked.
“I’m pregnant.”
He coughed, sending a spray of brandy out his nose; Cindy thumped him on the back with one hand and offered a handkerchief with the other.
“The devil you say!”
“Dr. Blaine’s sure,” she said tranquilly. “Aren’t you happy? We will have to move up the wedding, of course.”
She flowed into his arms, and they kissed. Noise and smoke vanished; so did time, until someone blew a tin horn into his ear. Cindy and he broke from their clinch and turned, he scowling and she laughing. It was Marya and her current boyfriend—cursed if I can remember his name . . . yeah, Steve. Wish she’d pick a steady—in party hats and a dusting of confetti.
“It isn’t 2400 yet,” Marya said, sliding into the other side of the booth. Her face was flushed, but only he could have told she had been drinking; there was no slur in her voice, and the movements were quick and graceful.
She’s a damned attractive woman, Lefarge thought. In a strong-featured athletic way, but there were plenty of men who liked that. Plenty who liked her intelligence and sardonic humor, as well, but she seemed to sheer off from anything lasting. Hell, this isn’t the time to worry.
They all turned to watch the screen again; it was coming around to time for the countdown to midnight. It blanked, and there was a roar of protest from the crowd, redoubled when an NPS newscaster appeared. Sheila Gilbert, he remembered; something of a star of serious news analysis, a hook-nosed woman with a patented smile. She looked . . . frightened out of her wits, he thought suddenly. And it took something fairly hairy to do that to a professional like Gilbert. There was a sudden feeling like a trickle of ice down his stomach to his crotch: fear. Lefarge and Marya glanced at each other and back at the screen.
“ . . . President Gupta Rao of the Progressive Party has committed suicide.”
“Shit!” Lefarge whispered.
“I repeat, the President of the Indian Republic has shot himself; the body was found in his office only two hours ago. The suicide note contains a confession, confirmed by other sources in the Indian capital . . . ” More shouting from the customers, but less noisy; Lefarge strained to hear, and then the volume went up. “ . . . Hindi Raj militants have documentary proof that OSS agents were responsible for planting the information which led to the Hamburger Scandal and the disgrace of late presidential candidate Rashidi. Riots have been reported in Allahabad and—”
It was a full ten seconds before Lefarge felt Cindy’s tugging on his arm. Gently, he laid a finger over her mouth and looked at his sister.
“We’d better—”
“Attention!” The civil-defense sigil came on the viewer, cutting into the newscast. “Alliance Defense Forces announcement. All military personnel Category Seven and above please report to your duty stations. I repeat—”
DRAKA FORCES BASE ANTINOOUS
PROVINCE OF BACTRIA
DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA
JANUARY 14, 1976: 1500 HOURS
“ ’Tent-hut!”
The briefing room was in the oldest section of the base, built fifty years before, when this had been part of newly conquered northern Afghanistan. Built for biplanes, ground-support craft dropping fragmentation bombs and poison gas on the last badmashi rebels in the hills, when the Janissary riflemen had flushed them out. Yolande blinked at the thought: two generations . . . her own parents squalling infants, way down in the Old Territories. Her birthplace still outside the Domination . . . A few banners and trophies on the walls, otherwise plain whitewash and brown tile.
Fifty years from biplanes to the planets, Yolande thought as she saluted. Not bad.
“Service to the State!”
“Glory to the Race!” A crisp chorus from every throat.
“At ease.” The hundred-odd pilots sank back into their chairs.
The hooting of the wind came faintly through the thick concrete walls, and the air was crackling dry. There was very little outside that you would want to see. Pancake-flat irrigated farmland hereabouts, near the Amu Darya, and the climate was nearly Siberian in winter; even more of a backwater than Italy, unless you were interested in archaeology. The hunting was not bad, some tiger in the marshes along the river, and snow leopard in the mountains. Quite beautiful up there, in an awesome sort of way; the Hindu Rush made the Alps look like pimples. Otherwise nothing to do but fly and study, almost like being back at the Academy. She and Myfwany had both passed their Astronautical Institute finals last month, and could expect transfer soon. Now that would be something . . .
“The balloon’s going up day after tomorrow.”
The squadron commander grinned at them with genial savagery. Her nickname among the pilots was Mother Kali, and not without reason. There was a collective rustle of attention. Yolande felt a lurch below the breastbone, and reached out to squeeze her lover’s hand.
“Here’s the basic situation.” The wall behind her lit with a map of the Indian subcontinent; the Domination flanked it to the north and west, the Indian Ocean and the ancient Draka possession of Ceylon to the south.
“The Indians pulled out of the Alliance last week, aftah the head-hunters revealed the little nasty the Alliance OSS pulled on they last election . . . but it’s almighty confused. Burma”—an area in the lower right corner shaded from white to gray—“counterseceded back to the Alliance, and there was fightin’ in Rangoon. Alliance seems to have won, worse luck. We’ve stayed conspicuously peaceful”—a snicker of laughter ran through the room—“which put the secessionists firmly in power in New Delhi. Just long enough fo’ the ground an’ air units the Indians were contributin’ to the Alliance to transfer their allegiance to the new Indian Republic, but not long enough fo’ them to settle their share of the orbital assets. We’ve recognized the new government, an’ they’ve reciprocated. Nice of them.”
Another wave of chuckles. “Which means as of the present everybody has recognized the new government as sovereign. But.” The squadron commander tapped her pointer into a gloved hand. “But, the Alliance hasn’t yet signed a defense treaty with the Republic, which has no credible nuclear strike force or defenses. We’ve got a window of opportunity; now we’re goin’ jump through, shootin’. Calculation is that the Alliance will run around screamin’ and shoutin’ and do fuck-all fo’ the week or so we need to overrun India. We’ll carefully avoid any provocation elsewhere, or in space. Now, befo’ I proceed to the tactical situation, any questions?”
“Ma’am?” A man’s voice, from the seat on the other side of Myfwany.
Yolande turned to look at him. Pilot Officer Timothy Wellington; a slim man of middle height, with a conservative side-crop and a seal-brown mustache, a jaunty white scarf tucked into his black flight overall. She gritted her teeth and fought back a flush. Not that he was a bad sort. City boy from Peking; knowledgeable about the visual arts, worth talking to on poetry. She had even quite enjoyed the several occasions when Myfwany had invited him over for the night. I just wish he’d learn not to presume on acquaintance, she thought. Also that Myfwany would slap him down more often. He had been hanging around entirely too much lately.