David Weber & John Ringo - March Upcountry 02 - March to the Sea

March to the Sea

by David Weber & John Ringo

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31826-8

Cover art by Patrick Turner

Interior maps by John Ringo

First printing, August 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Weber, David, 1952–

March to the sea / by David Weber & John Ringo.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-31826-8

1. Princes—Fiction. 2. Life on other planets—Fiction. I. Ringo, John, 1963–

II. Title.

PS3573.E217 M35 2001

813'.54—dc21 2001025925

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

For "Uncle Steve" Griswold, USMC,

The "barbarian" who taught me that people are always responsible for their own actions, but that

sometimes good people have to take the responsibility for fixing other people's mistakes. You did . . . for

thirty-one years. God Bless.

Dedicated to Charles Gonzalez:

The sort of person who would discuss quantum mechanics, dialects of Amazonian tribes and

garroting German sentries with an impressionable twelve-year-old.

ALSO IN THIS SERIES

March Upcountry

March to the Stars (forthcoming)

BAEN BOOKS by DAVID WEBER

Honor Harrington:

On Basilisk Station

The Honor of the Queen

The Short Victorious War

Field of Dishonor

Flag in Exile

Honor Among Enemies

In Enemy Hands

Echoes of Honor

Ashes of Victory

edited by David Weber:

More than Honor

Worlds of Honor

Changer of Worlds

Mutineers' Moon

The Armageddon Inheritance

Heirs of Empire

Path of the Fury

The Apocalypse Troll

Oath of Swords

The War God's Own

with Steve White:

Insurrection

Crusade

In Death Ground

BAEN BOOKS by JOHN RINGO

A Hymn Before Battle

Gust Front

When the Devil Dances

CHAPTER ONE

Sergeant Adib Julian, Third Platoon, Bravo Company of The Empress' Own, opened his eyes,

looked around the inside of his cramped, one-man bivy tent, and frowned sleepily. Something was

different, but he couldn't tell what. Whatever it was, it hadn't twanged his finely honed survival instincts,

which at least suggested that no thundering hordes of Mardukan barbarians were likely to come charging

through the sealed flaps at him, but that sense of change lingered. It poked at him, prodding him up out of

the depths of slumber, and he checked his toot. The implanted computer told him that it wasn't quite

dawn, and he yawned. There was still time to sleep, so he rolled over, pushing aside a pebble in the dirt,

and shivered in the cold . . .

His eyes snapped wide, and he unsealed the tent opening and popped out into the predawn light like

a Terran prairie dog.

"It's cold!" he shouted in glee.

Bravo Company had been marching uphill for the last several days. They had long since passed out

of the valleys around the Hadur River, and the city-state of Marshad lay far behind them. In fact, they

were beyond any of the surrounding cities that had the dubious pleasure of lying on the borders of the

late, unlamented King Radj Hoomas' territory.

They'd made better time than they'd anticipated, yet despite the rigorous pace and steadily increasing

upward slopes they faced, they had enjoyed a period of remarkable respite. Between the sale of the

captured weapons gathered in Voitan, the remnant funds from Q'Nkok, and the lavish gifts T'Leen Sul

and the new Council of Marshad had bestowed upon them, they had been able to purchase all their

needs along the way.

In many cases, that had been unnecessary. Several towns had hosted them like visiting dignitaries . . .

for more than one reason. The towns had been fearful of Radj Hoomas' ambition and avarice, and were

delighted to do anything they could for the aliens who had put an end to them. They'd also been

fascinated by the off-world visitors . . . and, in many cases, they'd wanted to get them out of town as

quickly as possible.

The trader network in the Hadur had spread accounts of the destruction of the entire dreaded

Kranolta barbarian federation at Voitan, the battle at Pasule, and the Marshad coup far and wide, and

the message encapsulated in all the stories was clear. The humans were not to be molested. The few

times they'd run into resistance—once from a group of particularly stupid bandits—they had successfully

demonstrated the effectiveness of classical Roman short-sword-and-shield combat techniques against

charging Mardukans without ever being forced to resort to bead rifles or plasma cannon. But thanks to

the stories which had run before them, any potentially ill-intentioned locals had known that those terrifying

off-world weapons lurked in reserve . . . and had no desire at all to see them any more closely than that.

The Bronze Barbarians of The Empress' Own, veterans all, were well aware of the advantages

inherent in a fearsome reputation. This one had come with a higher price tag than they had ever wanted to

pay, but it also meant that they'd been able to travel for several weeks with virtually no incidents. That

happy state of affairs had given them time to lick their wounds and get ready for the next hurdle: the

mountains.

Julian had been off guard duty the night before, but Nimashet Despreaux had had the last shift. Now,

as he stood grinning hugely into the semi-dark, she smiled at him while groans sounded across the camp.

The female sergeant bent over the fire, picked something up, and walked over to where he was dancing

in delight.

"Hot coffee?" she offered, extending the cup with a grin. The company had practically given up the

beverage; it was just too hot on Marduk in the morning.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," the NCO chortled. He took the cup and sipped the brew.

"God, that tastes awful. I love it."

"It's bloody freezing," Corporal Kane grumped.

"How cold is it?" Julian asked, diving back into his bivy tent for his helmet.

"Twenty-three degrees," Despreaux told him with a fresh smile.

"Twenty-three?" Gronningen asked, furrowing his brow as he sniffed the cool air. "What's that in

Fahrenheit?"

"Twenty-three!" Julian laughed. "Shit! I'd set my air-conditioning to twenty-three!"

"Something like seventy-three or seventy-four Fahrenheit," Despreaux said with a laugh of her own.

"This feels much colder," the big Asgardian said stoically. If he was cold, it wasn't showing. "Not

cold, but a bit chilly."

"We've been out in over a forty-degree heat for the last two months," the squad leader pointed out.

"That tends to adjust your perspective."

"Uh-oh," Julian said, looking around. "I wonder how the scummies are handling this?

* * *

"What's wrong with him, Doc?" Prince Roger had awoken, shivering, to find Cord seated

cross-legged in the tent, still and motionless. Repeated attempts to get the six-limbed, grizzly bear-sized

Mardukan shaman to wake up had resulted only in slow groans.

"He's cold, Sir." The medic shook his head. "Really cold." Warrant Dobrescu pulled the monitor

back from the Mardukan and shook his head again, his expression worried. "I need to go check the

mahouts. If Cord is in this bad a shape, they're going to be worse. Their cover isn't as good."

"Is he going to be okay?" the anxious prince asked.

"I don't know. I suspect that he's probably sort of hibernating, but it's possible that if they get too

cold something will shut down and kill them." Dobrescu took another breath and shook his head. "I've

been meaning to do a really thorough study of Mardukan body chemistry and physiology. It looks like I

waited a bit too long."

"Well, we need—" the prince began, only to break off at the sound of shouting from outside the tent.

"Now what the hell is that?"

* * *

"Modderpockers, let me go!" Poertena shouted. He snarled at the laughing Marines who were

crawling out of their one-person tents to sniff at the morning air. "Gimme a pocking hand, damn it!"

"Okay, everybody," St. John (J.) said, slowly clapping. "Let's give him a hand."

"Now that," Roger said, "is a truly disgusting menage a . . . uh . . ."

"Menage a cinq is the term you're looking for," Doc Dobrescu said, laughing as he walked over to

the pinned armorer and the four comatose Mardukans wrapped tightly about his diminutive form.

Roger shook his head and chuckled, but he also waved to the Marines.

"Some of you guys, help the Doc."

St. John (J.) grabbed one of Denat's inert arms and started trying to disengage it from the armorer.

"This really is gross, Poertena," the Marine said as he tried to pull one of the slime-covered arms off

the armorer.

"You pocking telling me? I wake up, and it not'ing but arms and slime!"

Roger began to haul on Tratan as the Mardukan groaned and resisted the pulling Marines.

"They seem to like you, Poertena."

"Well," the armorer's response sounded mildly strangled, "they tryin' to kill me now! Leggo!"

"They like his heat," the warrant officer grunted as he helped Roger heave, then said something

unprintable under his breath and gave up. The united efforts of three Marines had so far been unable to

get Denat to release his grip, and the bear hug actually did threaten to kill the armorer. "Somebody build

a fire. Maybe if we warm them up, they'll let go."

"And somebody help me get Cord," Roger said, then thought about the weight of the Mardukan.

"Several somebodies." He looked over to the picket lines where the mahouts made their camp. "Did

anybody notice that the packbeasts are missing?" he asked, bemusedly.

* * *

"We passed through a cold front," the medic said, shaking his head. "Or what passes for one on this

screwy planet."

Captain Pahner had called a council of war to consider the night's events. The group sat near the

edge of the camp, looking down on the forest of clouds that stretched into the distance from their foothills

perch. Above them, the true mountains loomed trackless.

"What cold front?" Julian asked. "I didn't see any cold front."

"You remember that rain we had yesterday afternoon?" Dobrescu asked.

"Sure, but it rains all the time here," the NCO replied skeptically.

"But that one went on for a long time," Roger noted. "Usually, they just sort of hit in short spurts. That

one rained, and rained, and rained."

"Right." The medic nodded. "And today, the air pressure is a few points higher than yesterday. Not

much—this planet doesn't have much in the way of a weather system—but enough. Anyway, the cloud

layer got suppressed," he gestured to the clouds, "the humidity fell, and the temperature . . ."

"Dropped like a rock," Pahner said. "We got that part. Can the locals handle it?"

The medic sighed and shrugged.

"That I don't know. Most terrestrial isothermic and posithermic creatures can survive to just above

freezing temperatures as long as they don't stay that way too long. However, that's terrestrial." He

shrugged again. "With Mardukans, Captain, your guess is probably as good as mine. I'm a doc, not an

exobiologist."

He looked around at the camp, and especially at the flar-ta.

"The packbeasts, now, they seem to be better adapted. They burrowed underground last night on

first watch and stayed there till things warmed back up. And their skin is different from the Mardukans',

scaled and dry where the Mardukans' is smooth and mucous-coated. So I think the packbeasts can

make it, if we stay below the freezing line. But I don't know about the locals," he finished unhappily,

gesturing at Cord and the lead mahout.

They had been speaking in the dialect of Q'Nkok so that the two Mardukan representatives could

follow the conversation. Now Cord clapped his hands and leaned forward.

"I can withstand the conditions of last night with dinshon exercises. However," he waved a true-hand

at D'Len Pah, "the mahouts are not trained in them. Nor are any of my nephews, except Denat, and he

poorly. Also," he pointed to patches on his skin, "it is terribly dry up here. And it will only get worse,

from what Shaman Dobrescu says."

"So," said Pahner. "We have a problem."

"Yes," D'Len Pah said. The old mahout looked terrible in the light of midmorning. Part of that was the

same dry patches that affected Cord, but the greater part was bitter shame. "We cannot do this much

longer, Lord Pahner, Prince Roger. This is a terrible, terrible place. There is no air to breathe. The wind

is as dry as sand. The cold is fierce and terrible." He looked up from the scratches he'd been making on

the ground with his mahout stick. "We . . . cannot go any farther."

Pahner looked over at Roger and cleared his throat.

"D'Len Pah, we must cross these mountains. We must reach the far coast, or we will surely die. And

we cannot leave our gear." He looked up at the towering peaks. "Nor can we carry it over the mountains

without the flar-ta. It's not like we can call Harendra Mukerji for a resupply."

The lead mahout looked around nervously. "Lord Pahner . . ."

"Calmly, D'Len," Roger said. "Calmly. We won't take them from you. We aren't brigands."

"I know that, Prince Roger." The mahout clapped his hands in agreement. "But . . . it is a fearsome

thing."

"We could . . ." Despreaux started to say, then stopped. With the loss of most of the senior NCOs,

she was being groomed for the Third Platoon platoon sergeant's position. This was the first time she'd

been included in one of the staff meetings, so she was nervous about making her suggestion.

"Go ahead," Eleanora O'Casey said with a nod, and the sergeant gave the prince's chief of staff a

brief glance of thanks.

"Well . . . we could . . ." She stopped again and turned to D'Len Pah. "Could we buy the packbeasts

from you?" She looked at Captain Pahner, whose face had tightened at the suggestion and shrugged. "I'm

not saying that we will, I'm asking if we could."

Roger looked at Pahner. "If we can, we will," he said, and the Marine looked back at him with a

careful lack of expression.

His Royal Highness, Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock, Heir Tertiary to

the Throne of Man, had changed immeasurably from the arrogant, conceited, self-centered, whiny

spoiled brat he'd been before a barely bungled assassination by sabotage had shipwrecked him and his

Marine bodyguards on the hellhole called Marduk. For the most part, Pahner was prepared to admit that

those changes had been very good things, because Bronze Battalion of The Empress' Own had been less

than fond of the aristocratic pain in the ass it had been charged with protecting, and with excellent reason.

Pahner supposed that discovering that a dangerously competent (and unknown) someone wanted

you dead, and then coping with the need to march clear around an alien planet full of bloodthirsty

barbarians in hopes of somehow taking that planet's sole space facility away from the traditional enemies

of the Empire of Man who almost certainly controlled it, would have been enough to refocus anyone's

thoughts. Given the unpromising nature of the preassassination-attempt Roger, that wasn't something

Pahner would have cared to bet any money on, of course. And he more than suspected that he and the

rest of Bravo Company owed a sizable debt of gratitude to D'Nal Cord. Roger's Mardukan asi

—technically a slave, although anyone who made the mistake of confusing Cord with a menial probably

wouldn't live long enough to realize he'd stopped breathing for some odd reason—was a deadly warrior

who had become the prince's mentor, and not just where weapons were concerned. The native shaman

was almost certainly the first individual ever to take Roger seriously as both prince and protégé, and the

imprint of his personality was clear to see in the new Roger.

All of that was good. But it never would have occurred to the old, whiny Roger even to consider that

such a thing as a debt of honor might exist between him and a troop of barbarian beast drovers on a

backwoods planet of mud, swamp, and rain. Which, much as Pahner hated to admit it, would have been

a far more convenient attitude on his part at this particular moment.

"Sir," he said tightly, "those funds will be needed for our expenses on the other side of the mountains.

When we get out of here, we'll need to immediately resupply. That is if we don't run out on the way. Or

have to turn back."

"Captain," Roger said steadily, sounding uncannily like his mother in deadly reasonable mode, "we

have to have the flar-ta, and we will not take them from mahouts who have stood by us through thick

and thin. You yourself said that we're not brigands, and shouldn't act like them. So, what's the answer?"

"We can improve things for them," Gunny Jin said. "Wrap them in cloths so that they don't lose so

much moisture. Put them in a tent with a warming stove at night. That sort of thing."

D'Len clapped his hands in regret. "I do not think I can convince my people to continue on. It is too

terrible up here."

"If you think we can continue," Cord said, "my nephews will do so. I, of course, am asi. I shall follow

Roger wherever it leads."

"Let's put it to a vote," Roger said to Pahner. "I won't say that we'll go with it either way, but I'd like

to see what everyone thinks."

"All right," the captain agreed reluctantly. "I think, though, that we're going to need all of our funds on

the far side of the mountain. Desperately. Still," he added with a shrug. "Despreaux?"

The junior NCO cleared her throat. "It was my idea."

"So noted," Pahner said with a smile. "I won't hold it against you. I take it that was a 'buy the beasts'

vote?"

"Yes, Sir, but D'Len Pah hasn't said he'll sell."

"Good point," Roger said. "D'Len? Can we buy them from you?"

The old Mardukan hesitated, drawing his circles on the stony ground.

"We must have at least one to make it back to the forests," he temporized.

"Granted," Roger said promptly.

"And . . . they aren't cheap," the mahout added.

"Would you rather bargain with Captain Pahner or Poertena?" the prince asked.

"Poertena?" The mahout looked around wildly. "Not Poertena!"

"We'll strike a fair bargain," Pahner said severely. "If we decide to buy them." He thought about it for

a moment. "Oh, hell. When. There isn't a choice, is there?"

"Not really, Captain," Roger said. "Not if we're going to make it over the mountains."

"So," the commander said to the mahout. "Are you willing to bargain for them? In gems, gold, and

dianda?"

The mahout clapped his lower hands in resignation.

"Yes. Yes, we will. The flar-ta are like children to us. But you have been good masters; you will

treat our children well. We will bargain for their worth." He lowered his head and continued, firmly. "But

not with Poertena."

* * *

"Good t'ing they didn't know I was coaching you over tee poc—tee radio, Sir," Poertena said as they

waved to the mahouts, slowly making their way back downslope.

"Yep," Roger agreed. "How'd I do?"

"We got pock— We got screwed."

"Hey," Roger said defensively. "Those things are priceless up here!"

"Yeah," Poertena agreed. "But t'ey takin' tee money down t'ere. We prob'ly pay twice what they

flar-ta is worth. T'at more money than t'ey ever see in t'eir po . . . in their lives."

"True," Roger said. "I'm glad that Cranla went with them. Maybe he can keep people from taking it

before they buy their new mounts."

"Sure," the armorer complained. "But now I out a fourth for spades. What I gonna do 'bout t'at?"

"Spades?" Roger asked. "What's spades?"

* * *

"I can' believe I get taken by my own pocking prince," Poertena grumped much later as he and Denat

watched Roger walk away, whistling cheerfully while he counted his winnings.

"Well," Cord's nephew told him with a remarkable lack of sympathy, "you keep telling us there's a

new sucker born every minute. You just didn't get around to mentioning that you were one of them!"

* * *

Cord raised the flap of the cover as the flar-ta came to a halt. The three remaining Mardukans had

ridden the big packbeasts for the last several days while the humans had searched for a path through the

mountains. To avoid the cold and desiccating dryness, the three had huddled under one of the hide tents.

There, in a nest of wet rags, they had spent the day, warmed by the sun on the dark tents.

But as the packbeasts continued to stand motionless, Cord decided to brave the outside conditions.

Pushing aside one of the moistened clumps of dianda, the shaman slipped out from under the tent and

began to walk towards the front of the column, and Roger looked up and smiled as he approached.

"We might have hit a bit of luck," the prince said, gesturing at a pile of rocks. The cairn was clearly

artificial, a fairly large pile of stones at the mouth of one of three valleys diverging from the river they'd

been following.

The humans had been hunting back and forth in the mountains for a week and a half, looking for a

relatively low way across. Several promising valleys had so far yielded only impossibly steep ascents.

This valley would not have been considered promising, since it narrowed abruptly up ahead and bent

sharply to the south out of sight. However, the existence of the cairn was indisputable.

"Could be some traveler's idea of a practical joke," Kosutic said dubiously. The sergeant major

shook her head, looking up the narrow track. "And it'll be a bitch getting the beasts through there."

"But it's the first indication we've had that there's ever been anybody up here," Roger said stubbornly.

"Why would anyone lie about the path?"

Pahner looked up at the path the valley might take.

"Looks like there's a glacier up there," he said. He nodded to the stream roaring out of the valley.

"See how white the water is, Your Highness?"

"Yes," Roger said. "Oh. Yeah. I've seen that before."

"Snowmelt?" Kosutic asked.

"Glacial runoff," Pahner corrected. "Dust particles from the glacier grinding the mountains. At least

part of this stream has its origin in a glacier." He looked at Cord and then back at the flar-ta. "I don't see

them being able to make it in glacial conditions."

"There is that," Roger admitted, looking up at the snowy caps. "But we still need to check it out."

"Not we," Pahner said. "Sergeant Major?"

"Gronningen," she said instantly. "He's from Asgard, so he could care less about cold." She paused

and thought. "Dokkum is from New Tibet. He should know something about mountains. And I'll take

Damdin, too."

"Do it," Pahner said. "We'll make a solid camp here in the meantime." He looked around at the

coniferlike trees. "At least there's plenty of wood."

* * *

Kosutic looked around the narrow defile with critical eyes. In the week since they'd started up the

valley, they had yet to find a spot the packbeasts couldn't negotiate, but this was pushing it.

"You think they can get through?" Dokkum asked. The little Nepalese was taking the slow, steady

steps he'd taught the others when they tried to take off like jackrabbits. The simple method of one step

per breath was the only way to move in serious mountains. Anything else would wear humans to the bone

between the thin air and steep slopes.

David Weber & John Ringo - March Upcountry 02 - March to the Sea

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