“But—” Anish turned white to the roots of his hair. “He’ll slaughter every soldier we leave behind!”
“Yes,” she said softly, “he will. But if we’re clever enough and if the soldiers who volunteer to stay are brave enough under fire, we can inflict telling injuries. Serious enough to make it really expensive to repair him.”
“Kafari, we can’t kill a Bolo.”
“Want to bet? I’m a Bolo commander’s wife, Anish. I did my psychotronic engineering practicum on Sonny’s systems. I’ve watched Simon pull maintenance on that Bolo dozens of times. I’ve been inside the Command Compartment. And I’ve listened to them talk about damage sustained in other wars. I know exactly how Deng Yavacs killed sixteen Bolos on Etaine — and why it was almost seventeen.”
“My God,” Anish whispered. “I never correlated that. That you’d talked to the Bolo about combat, I mean.”
“With any luck, the bastards in Madison have forgotten it, too. It’s our job to remind them. I intend to make it a very expensive lesson,” Kafari added, voice full of cold and lethal promise.
A shudder rippled through Anish’s whole torso. “Okay,” he said in a hoarse tone, “if it’s fish or cut bait, I prefer to fish. God help us all…”
Amen, Kafari agreed silently, climbing down the rock face she’d chosen as lookout. We need all the help — divine or otherwise — we can get. By the time Kafari reached the valley floor, the truckload of equipment they would need at Nineveh Base had arrived, driving cross country without running lights. The driver who jumped down was a combat veteran from the Deng War. Wakiza Red Wolf had field experience in demolitions and explosives, both of which had earned him a slot on Kafari’s personal team. Pride rang through his voice as he snapped out a crisp salute.
“I beg to report success, sir!”
“Well done,” Kafari returned the salute, pleased with his news and even more pleased that he’d remembered to say “sir” instead of “ma’am.” Anish Balin had impressed upon their small band of freedom fighters the importance of hiding Kafari’s identity, including her gender.
“It’s up to us,” he’d told the assembled strike team, “to protect our commander. We,” he indicated himself and the others who’d gathered in the midnight darkness of his hay field, “are expendable. Our commander,” he nodded toward Kafari, “is not. She is the only person on Jefferson who knows how to cripple a Bolo. If she goes down, our entire cause goes down with her. So does every Granger’s hope of freedom — and maybe simple survival. Let’s be very clear about that, right up front. Does anyone have the slightest doubt left, now, about POPPA’s intentions? Does anyone fail to understand the lengths POPPA will go to, carrying out those intentions?”
Utter silence reigned. The only sound was the whisper of wind through standing hay.
“Very good. You all know what we’re up against. Some of us — maybe most of us — will die before sunrise. That’s not pessimism, it’s harsh reality.”
Kafari spoke up. “I don’t want anybody going into battle under a misapprehension. Things are going to get messy. Very messy. Was anyone here in Madison, tonight?”
No one spoke up.
“Well, I was. I’ve been caught in two other POPPA riots. I thought I’d seen the ugliest and most violent face POPPA had to show, but I was wrong. What I saw tonight…” Even the memory made her shudder. “Vittori Santorini has created an ungovernable killing machine that will turn on anyone and anything it wants to blame for its problems. That machine is ripping Madison apart. And you can bet your farms and cow pastures that we — Grangers — are going to take the blame. If we don’t act now, as a fighting force with teeth, it will be too late for anything to stop it.
“Having said that, I won’t send you into battle under false pretenses. Are you likely to die, tonight? Absolutely. Will Vittori and Nassiona Santorini hunt us down with every high-tech bloodhound they can muster into the field? You bet they will. Tonight’s raids will get their attention in a really big way. Will they order reprisals against innocents? Count on it. Once we start shooting them and blowing them up, they will get flat-assed mean.
“If you don’t like those odds, if you don’t want to be responsible for setting off that kind of powder keg, you can leave now, no questions asked. Just bear in mind one thing before you make your final decision. The massacre of innocents has already started. POPPA declared war on us, tonight, and that war will spread to every farm, every ranch, every small town on Jefferson.
“Vittori will slaughter us whether we fight back or not. I can’t tell anyone else what to do, but I intend to go down with weapons in my hands. Here and now, in this field, in front of witnesses — human and divine — I pledge my strength, my cunning, my knowledge, to the total destruction of POPPA and its leaders. And I swear to each and every one of you, if they blow me apart and send the left-over pieces bouncing down to hell, you may rest assured that I will drag as many as I can take down with me.”
A spontaneous cheer erupted, muted almost instantly down to a whisper, so the sound wouldn’t travel far, but it was a cheer, nonetheless. Then silence fell, a silence that burned with hatred and something else, as well, something that burned hot enough to melt steel. She couldn’t immediately identify it. Whatever it was, it shone fiercely in eyes that never left her face. It was that steady, intense regard, itself, that finally told her what it was.
Respect.
Not just for her. For themselves, as well.
Rough emotion closed her throat.
Anish Balin broke the silence. “As of tonight,” he gestured to include the whole group, “we are the only thing standing between millions of innocent Grangers and POPPA’s guns. Kafari and I fully intend to win this war, no matter what it takes. And the very first thing it will take is making sure Kafari Khrustinova stays officially dead. It’s our job to see that nobody — and I mean nobody — discovers otherwise. If POPPA has even the remotest suspicion that Kafari Khrustinova is still alive, they will turn Klameth Canyon — and every other Granger farmstead on Jefferson — to slag, looking for her. Having made that clear, does anyone have questions?”
Nobody did.
They all turned, as if by prearranged signal, to look at Kafari. It was fitting, somehow, that the larger of Jefferson’s two moons scaled the high cliffs at that moment, casting silver light across the fields and the faces of those following her into battle. She looked into each of those faces, into eyes that shone like cold and lethal diamonds in the moonlight, and caught a glimpse of her homeworld’s future. Jefferson’s tomorrow — and all the countless tomorrows that would follow — were filled with blood-feud and death and honor. The others could see it reflected in her eyes, as well as she could see it in theirs. They met her gaze without flinching, met and held it in the moonlight, waiting for her to issue her first battle command.
“I won’t offer you a bunch of useless platitudes,” she began quietly. “POPPA spits out of enough of those to choke a jaglitch. You know exactly what we’re up against. You know your team assignments and objectives. So let’s not delay this any longer. Alpha Team, you’re assigned to weapons procurement. You’ll strike our first target. Beta Team, go with Anish and wait for my signal. Alpha Team will join you once they have acquired effective weaponry. Gamma Team, you’re assigned to logistics and provisioning. Dismantle Anish’s broadcast studio and transport it out of Klameth Canyon. Pack up everything edible, as well, and start planning where we can get more. Is everyone clear on the plan of attack? Very well. Move out.”