Samiva de Frée
(Le Sable et l'Acier -2)
(Le Sable et l'Acier -2)
Francine Pelletier
(Excerpt from chapter 1, p. 7-17)
Everything started to go wrong the night the Terrans landed in the middle of a blizzard.
Until then, Lieutenant Sam de Frée considered herself to have done rather well in life. After all, she had earned her stripes through hard work and not by knowing the right people, like most of her colleagues. Behind her, backing her up, there was no rich family, no powerful uncle who knew so-and-so in the General's entourage, no glorious ancestors from the north to earn her free respect from her comrades in the regiment. Nothing. Nothing but a wind-swept island...
And that wind was blowing damned strong that night. Sam had just entered the mess, where she hoped to gulp down a bowl of broth, when she had heard the alarm sound, its powerful horn muffled by the snow. Good god, they weren't going to try a landing tonight, were they! She rushed outside, of course, but not without hearing some sniggering behind her back. No luck, huh, Sam?
She just happens to be on duty on the worst night of the winter, right? There are certain risks in becoming the first woman officer in the Forces armées d'intervention - the fad'is, the armed response force - and you don't get any respect from these arrogant northern men, not without paying very dearly.
Leaning into the wind, an arm raised to protect her face from the biting cold, blinded by the snow clinging to her eyelashes, she made her way, eyes half closed, towards the landing strip. You could hardly see two paces in front of you. Sam swore through her teeth. If Vallée had sounded the alarm to play a trick on her, she would make him eat his boots, and the sergeant of the guard's too!
It wouldn't be the first time they'd pulled something on her.
She hugged the hangars, which helped her breathe a little easier. She had never gotten used to the penetrating cold of winter in Touquertes, and didn't understand by what foolishness the Terrans had chosen this city as a home base. Or rather, as they called it, as an astroport. The port to the stars. The port to disaster, yes. At least, if they had really decided to do a landing tonight...
To the left, the wind swept over the wide area exposed to the raging elements. Only a few small patches of the landing strip were visible between the snow drifts. In front of her, Sam suddenly saw the glow of lanterns, blocked at times by the shadows passing through in the beams of light. A truck, identifiable by the plume of steam rising from its smokestack, a truck and three men scurrying around like terrified ants. She strode towards them.
"What're you doing here, you idiots? Didn't you hear the alarm?
They snapped to attention, shivering under their snow-covered coats, looking like those candies covered with powdered sugar that the confectioner sold for the New Year's festivities. Sam would have made fun of them if she hadn't been so furious.
"Lieutenant," shivered one of them, "the truck skidded on a patch of ice..."
Sam opened the door and climbed into the cab shouting:
"I'll try to back up, you push."
Automatically she waited for the men to obey before putting the truck into reverse. Sometimes these idiots were slow to follow her orders, although this happened less frequently with the common troopers. In the officers' school where she received her commission, the teachers told her no man would accept her orders. That was the reason why she would likely remain a lieutenant forever: no officer, especially a Norderlander (and how many officers were there who weren't?), would tolerate having her has a superior.
With the push of the soldiers, the truck finally moved. Sam backed it up away from the landing strip. The men trotted after her. When she got as far as the alley, she stopped and climbed down.
The men caught up with her, breathing with difficulty in the blizzard.
"Move this vehicle away," ordered Sam, "clear the alley and stay sheltered in the cab. Understood?"
They complied, saluting with a click of the heels, which made a funny sodden sound in the snow. Sam returned the salute and hurried towards the bunker. The wind cut her breath, and she slowed her pace. Better not to arrive panting before the sergeant of the guard - that would make him all too happy.
She finally reached the shelter, rammed the door open, the wind rushing in with her. Someone hurried to help her close it again. It was the sergeant of the guard, Dakinger.
Once the door was closed, he stepped back and stood at attention, no sign of smugness on his face. Sam bit into the words with perverse joy.
"Sergeant Dakinger, explain to me how it is that you stayed here, well sheltered, while three of your men were stuck, unable to clear the landing strip and were in danger."
Stung by the reprimand, Dakinger blushed. He clicked his heels sharply and barked, as he had been taught to do in officers' school:
"Sir, I felt that those men were not in danger since I had ord... asked the Terrans to delay their landing considering that, first of all, the blizzard has reduced visibility to zero and that, second, we have stopped clearing snow from the landing strip."
Sam rolled her eyes. He wasn't faking it, he really was a damn fool.
She adopted a sugary tone of voice.
"Sergeant, I don't know where you're from, believing that you can tell the Terrans what to do..."
She was lying, of course, she knew all too well where he was from: like every officer whose family was Norderlander, he thought he was the master of the world. The whole of Sarion lay before his feet. The thought that the Terrans could do as they pleased was simply unimaginable to him.
Without taking her eyes off Dakinger, Sam asked:
"Vallée, have they responded to the sergeant's 'request'?"
She did not need to turn her head. She could easily imagine the look on the face of Vallée, the listener. He, at least, harboured no illusions about the Terrans. He was sitting in front of the communicator, a Terran device with a big black case covered with buttons and screens. In principle, as its name suggested, the device was used to communicate but, in fact, it was mostly used to receive the messages from the Terrans announcing their landings, making the alarm wail. It was not without reason that the man assigned to the communicator was called the "listener."
"They acknowledged reception of the message, lieutenant," answered Vallée in an even voice.
Dakinger puffed up his chest. Sam sighed.
"Ask them what their current position is."
The listener complied. He was wearing an earpiece in his right ear, an arch-shaped gizmo that curved around to his mouth. Vallée did not raise his voice, he had learned a long time ago that communications with the Terrans were of extraordinary clarity, whatever the distance.
There was a smile in Dakinger eyes as Vallée questioned the Terrans. Sam turned away. She could give the sergeant his triumph for one moment. His disillusionment would be all the more brutal.
She unbuttoned her coat. The bunker was comfortably warm since an electrical heating system had been installed - a 'chalcotte.' This new system was the pride of the engineers, since it took up less room than the big coal stoves they had before; it generated enough warmth to let the men on duty take off their parkas. The system had been constructed on Sarion, but the technology came from elsewhere.
"Lieutenant..." said Vallée.
He raised a hand to his earphone as if, for once, he was having difficulty hearing.
"They are about to enter the atmosphere."
She saw the jolt of surprise that Dakinger could not repress and turned towards him with an impassive look. Basically, she felt sorry for him. Often, young promising officers simply cracked because their education had not prepared them for impotence.
She suddenly had an idea of what had persuaded the Terrans to choose Franchelande to build an astroport, rather than the proud Norderland where the motto was: "Vanquish or die." The Terrans would have been forced to massacre the Norderlanders to the last man before being able to build on their territory. While here in Franchelande, people were used to being invaded, being vanquished. It was easier to be cooperative.
"Dakinger, go check if the maintenance guys are all inside. I don't want anybody within a hundred paces of the landing strip. Move it."
Dakinger complied with a click of his heels. He quickly put on his coat before disappearing into the blizzard.
There was no excuse for having put men in danger with his conceited attitude. And he knew that Sam would not report him. It made no difference. The men with the truck would take care of spreading the story of the incident: how the sergeant had kept his little ass nice and warm while his men were straining to push the truck, how Lieutenant de Frée had booted him out of the bunker... Dakinger would have to ask for a transfer. A matter of honour.
Sam closed the door behind him. The cold had rushed into the concrete-walled building for an instant. It would take several minutes for the chalcotte to make the air comfortable again. Vallée shivered, and Sam handed him his coat. Let's hope the storm spares the electrical lines... The visitors from the stars had taught the local engineers to use their technology, but no Franchelander possessed the knowledge necessary to keep the power plants operating and maintain their fragile infrastructure. There were frequent power outages, giving the fad'is an additional reason to curse the Terrans.
In the bunker, the silence was now disturbed by the whistle of the wind and the crackle of the snow against the thick window of the shelter. Dakinger would not come back. He would find some pretext to take refuge in a hangar.
Sam recalled the suicide of a distinguished officer, eight years earlier, when the Terrans had given a show of their striking power. Riots had broken out because of a shortage of coal and public anger had turned against the Terrans. In principle, the fad'is were supposed to defend the visitors, but when the angry populace got too close to their house, the Terrans took action themselves. They say it was swift and spectacular. The Terrans had shown without any possible doubt the superiority of their weapons. A hard lesson for the Sarionian military. Of course, the visitors had not turned their weapons against the fad'is. They had simply used them to defend themselves. But everyone had got the message: if the Terrans wanted to, they could invade: all of Sarion, Franchelande as well as the impregnable Norderlander cities. If they confined themselves to the zone established by the Treaty of Touquertes, it was because that suited them, one way or another. Weren't they already the masters of the sky?
It was told, in fact, that in the Ouesterres beyond the ocean, a Norderlander inventor had succeeded in developing a heavier-than-air machine that flew using an oil-based fuel. But that flight lasted only a few seconds, and the machine barely left the ground. While the Terrans were flying as high as the stars, the Sarionians had to make do with their dirigibles.
Sam automatically looked down. The ground was vibrating under her boots. A low rumble could be heard, at first in the distance, then the sound swelled and the walls of the bunker began to shake. Vallée hunched down his head. Sam went and stood at the window. On the thick glass, her breath formed a circle of mist. Outside, the blizzard had redoubled its fury, but the storm wind that was blowing now had nothing to do with winter. It was the wind of the vessel, so powerful that it swept away everything beneath it. The snow whipped furiously against the window. Sam resisted the urge to cover her ears. The noise had become deafening.
The lights of the craft shone pale beams on the landing strip, highlighting the crazy dance of the snow. The din of the engines was unbearable, the whole bunker vibrated.
Finally, the intensity of the noise abated, but it never stopped; the pilot had not cut the engines. Stepping out into the storm, Sam jumped away just in time to avoid being struck by a little truck roaring out of the alley. The vehicle sped by and then stopped, with a controlled skid, in front of the door of the vessel. This was not a steam truck, of course _ no vehicle built on Sarion could ever reach such speeds. Sam contained her anger against the reckless driver. What would be the point of getting mad? It was Mundy, the Terrans' servant.
Dakinger burst out of the closest hangar leading a small band of stevedores, but the door of the hold did not open. Beside the huge vessel, the fad'is always looked like confused ants. However, according to the Terrans themselves, the ship that landed on Sarion was only a "shuttle," a vessel providing a link between the surface and real ship, which remained in orbit.
Their arms dangling, not knowing what to do, the men waited with their sergeant. Sam went over and shouted at them to go back into the hangars and wait for orders. Why hadn't the shuttle shut down its engines? Why didn't the hold open?
On the side of the vessel, a square of light finally appeared - the door. Two silhouettes were framed in it and clumsily climbed down into the snow. Mundy trotted over to them to guide them. The new arrivals were bundled in thick coats the material of which seemed to shine under the floodlights. They had boots on their feet, gloves on their hands, hoods on their heads and their faces concealed under veils.
When they arrived on Sarion, thirty years earlier, the Terrans had explained this kind of costume by the fact that their planet was in ruins, that their weakened sky let through the most dangerous rays from their star. Certain of them had been so seriously burned that they feared even the rays of Or, here, on Sarion. Subsequently, when they had seen their flabby skin, everyone had understood that they wore this protective clothing so that no one could see if they were really humans...
© 1997 Éditions Alire & Francine Pelletier
To find out what happens next...
