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  DON’T MISS WILLIAM R. FORSTCHEN’S

  BESTSELLING SAGA OF THE LOST REGIMENT

  “A CIVIL WAR SERIES WITH A TWIST.”

  —Washington Post

  RALLY CRY

  UNION FOREVER

  TERRIBLE SWIFT SWORD

  FATEFUL LIGHTNING

  BATTLE HYMN

  NEVER SOUND RETREAT

  A BAND OF BROTHERS

  MEN OF WAR

  from

  Praise for The Lost Regiment series

  “A terrific adventure that’s as good as anything I’ve read in more years than I can remember. First-rate storytelling,”

  —Raymond E. Feist, New York Times

  bestselling author of Krondor, the Betrayal

  “The label science fiction hardly describes this series as a whole, merely the premise. The Lost Regiment series is better described as a Civil War series with a twist.”

  —The Washington Post

  “ The Lost Regiment series moves like a bullet…an exciting read.”

  —Locus

  “Science fiction lovers will cheer.”

  —Boy’s Life

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,

  London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, December 2000

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © William R. Forstchen, 2000

  All rights reserved

  Cover art by Edwin Herder

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Praise for The Lost Regiment series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Clayton Stokes, who, with a letter at the right moment, helped set things on the proper path; the fire control guys on the Web who awe me with their technical knowledge; Gus, who gave me a whole new perspective on the “adventure” of life; and, finally for a little friend, Adam Rose, a young man filled with courage.

  PROLOGUE

  “As I look upon you today, I see not just the promise of the future, but also the spirits of all those who gave the last full measure of devotion so that we could be here to celebrate this day.”

  President of the Republic, Andrew Lawrence Keane, paused for a moment. His gaze swept the audience, the ranks of the new cadets graduating from the academies, their families, and the thousands who had gathered to celebrate with them.

  In the crowds, he could see the few who had survived, old comrades of so many hard-fought battles. Some nodded in recognition, others stiffened to attention, several of them saluting as their old commander looked their way.

  God, have we really grown old? he wondered. Wasn’t it just yesterday that we came to this world? Wasn’t it just yesterday that on these very plains beyond the city of Suzdal we drilled our new army, preparing for our first battle?

  His comrades of youth had slipped away, and it was hard to accept that he was drifting with them as well. Already they were the stories of yesterday, memories fading, turning to gray and then to hazy white.

  He caught a glimpse of old Pat O’Donald, barrel chest long ago slipping to his belt line, retired from the army, now a popular senator. He was sitting with the other dignitaries: William Webster, yet again secretary of the treasury; Chief Justice of the Supreme Court Casmir; Gates, publisher of a chain of papers; Varinnia Ferguson, president of the technical college—all of them growing old. Others were gone forever, crossing over the river to join comrades who had made that final journey long years before. Kal was gone, as was Emil, who had seemed like he would live forever, but had drifted into the final sleep only the winter before.

  Yet, at this moment, he could see them as it was so long ago, the men of his army, Mina, Ferguson, Malady, Showalter, Whatley, and Kindred. And behind them the hundreds of thousands who had died to create the Republic, to give them the blessed days of peace that had lasted for twenty years.

  He was suddenly aware that he had not continued with his speech, but his audience was patient. They knew what he was feeling at this moment, and he saw more than one lower his head, wiping tears from his eyes.

  The boys graduating from the naval and army academies—and they did still seem like boys—waited patiently, looking up at him, and he smiled.

  “I have but two things to say to you today.” He paused, a rhetorical flourish this time, as he stepped out from behind the podium and indicated the flag of the Republic with his one arm.

  “Love freedom. Love it more than anything else on this world. There is but one of two conditions in this life: you are either free, or you are a slave. We, your parents, fought a war unlike any other. It was not to conquer. It was not for power. It had but one purpose, and that was to set us free, to set free you, our children who were yet unborn.

  “So love that freedom as you would your mothers, your fathers, and the families you shall one day have. Do that, and this Republic will endure.

  “The second thing is about the concept of the Republic and the relationship between government and free citizens, who must remain eternally vigilant, and will take at least an hour to explain.”

  He could see more than one cadet shift uncomfortably, struggling to remain polite, as the day was hot and their dress uniforms made it even worse. He s
miled.

  “But your families await you for a final farewell before you leave for your postings, and, frankly, during all my years I’ve heard too many long-winded speeches and given more than one myself. So, I’m letting you off. Let’s close this ceremony and have some fun.”

  Polite chuckles erupted, and a few of the old veterans shouted for him to go ahead and talk as long as he wanted. He held up his hand and waved them off, then stepped away from the podium. A cheer erupted from the graduating cadets, and a thunderous ovation rose from the entire audience. The band sitting on a raised platform behind him stood up and started to play the national anthem, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Within seconds the thousands gathered joined in.

  Andrew looked over at Kathleen and took her hand in his and squeezed it. The words, no matter how many times they were sung, always cut into his soul….

  “I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps…”

  Watchfires…the Tugar watchfires; encamped on this very spot outside the city, he thought, remembering the bitter cold of that winter and the siege.

  “In rows of burnished steel…”

  The charge at Hispania, sweeping down from the heights, bayonets fixed, the final, desperate lunge that swept us to victory.

  He lowered his head. The final stanza always moved him to tears.

  “As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free…”

  The last refrain echoed, and though the official language of the Republic was now English, many sang the words in their native tongues: Rus, Latin, Chinese, Japanese, Greek, Welsh, Gaelic, old Norse, and a dozen other languages spoken in the fifteen states of the Republic.

  As tradition demanded, when the last words drifted away, the cadets broke into a cheer, hats flying into the air; the black campaign hats of the infantry, the white caps of the navy, and the sky blue of the aerosteamer corps.

  He looked over at Kathleen. Unashamed tears flowed from both of them, for this was not just another ceremony of state for them. She leaned against his shoulder.

  “The house will be empty tonight,” she whispered.

  “It has been ever since he went off to the academy.”

  “Not really, Andrew. He was home on vacations, weekend passes. We knew where he was….” Her voice trailed off. “We have to let go sometime.”

  She said nothing, and he pulled her closer.

  Madison, their oldest daughter, was married now, living in Roum, where her husband was stationed with the railroad engineering corps. The others—he tried not to think too much about them. The twins had died seven years ago in the typhoid fever epidemic, and young Hans had been taken the following spring by consumption.

  Abraham was the last of their children, born the autumn after the end of the war, and he had grown up far too quickly. Andrew saw him coming through the crowd, which was swarming up around the speaker’s platform. His arm was thrown around his closest friend, Sean O’Donald, wearing the sky blue uniform of a newly commissioned pilot.

  Andrew quickly wiped away his tears, and Kathleen, forcing a smile, went up to embrace him. The boys stopped, both of them grinning, and snapped off their salutes to the president. Andrew, putting on his stovepipe hat, returned the salute. The hat, in fact the entire ceremonial outfit of the presidency on this world, made him feel more than a bit self-conscious. Old Kal was the first to adopt the stovepipe hat, black morning coat, and chin whiskers of the legendary Lincoln, and forever impressed in the mind of the populace that this was what a president was supposed to wear. In his first term as president, Andrew had reluctantly adopted it.

  As the Constitution demanded, a president could serve only one six-year term, and for twelve years he had been out of office, though he had accepted a seat on the Supreme Court and, at the same time, had returned to his first profession, that of a college professor.

  The Chin crisis, however, had forced his return to the political arena. The Chin had created something he had always hoped to avoid, a political party based on power for one ethnic group, a disastrous development for a nation he had dreamed could somehow merge itself together into a single entity that ignored national origin and race.

  In writing the Constitution he had (and would admit to no one that it was deliberate) left out any restriction against nonconsecutive terms and thus ran for president again. The Chin had mounted an opposition, but all the other states rallied to Keane and it had been a landside. In the first hundred days of office he rammed through dozens of hills and several constitutional amendments, the key ones being that English would forever be the official language of the state. The argument was simple: of all the fighting units the men of the 35th Maine and the 44th New York, who represented no particular group, had fought to free all people. English was the compromise that favored no one state of the Republic over the others.

  He had carried it off, cooled the crisis, and, combined with an explosion of economic growth, the Republic was now flourishing.

  Kathleen stepped past him, sweeping Abraham into her arms. The boy looked over at Andrew, smiling indulgently. He knew his mother would never accept the fact that he had already grown up.

  He could see Kathleen in the boy’s fair complexion, the wisp of reddish hue to his hair, but he saw his own eyes in the boy, pale blue, but deep and filled with intensity.

  Sean O’Donald stood behind him, so unlike his father, so much his Roum mother; tall, slender, dark eyes, jet black hair. So like his mother as well in spirit: quiet, introspective, stunning in intellect. It was hard to believe that here was the son of the brawling artilleryman Pat O’Donald.

  Pat came up behind the two boys and clapped both of them on the shoulders. “Congratulations, me boys,” he said, his voice filled with emotion.

  He was breathing hard, florid features bright red from the noonday heat, and undoubtedly from the “nip of the cruel,” as he put it, that increasingly controlled his life. Throughout the war Pat had reveled in the shock of combat, but after the death of Hans, something seemed to slip away. Like so many veterans, he was haunted by having seen more than any one man should bear and having carried one too many burdens.

  Sean stiffened and turned to face his father. “Good morning, sir, and thank you.”

  Pat’s gaze caught Andrew’s for a second. He seemed to want to hug the boy, but instead just extended his beefy hand, which Sean took, held for a second, and let drop.

  Abraham, at last free of his mother’s tearful embrace, stepped back and smiled.

  Two more newly commissioned officers came up to join them, and Andrew turned to acknowledge them.

  “Father,” Abraham announced, “may I introduce two of my friends, Flight Officer Adam Rosovich and Flight Officer Richard Cromwell.”

  The two snapped to attention and saluted. Andrew returned the salute, his old military bearing still with him, then extended his hand.

  Adam he vaguely knew by sight, Cromwell by the controversy that had surrounded his admission to the Naval Academy. His father was, after all, the arch traitor of the war; the overplayed villain in more than one of the melodramas so popular now in the playhouses. He was five years older than most of the cadets, his mother a Merki slave who had survived the slaughter pits and annihilation that had destroyed most of Cartha when the wars ended.

  When Cromwell had presented himself to the admissions board, claiming the right of the son of a veteran of the original Yankees who had come to this world, it had triggered outrage and, at first, a denial. Then Andrew had directly intervened, making a special ruling that any son of a Yankee could claim admission if he passed the boards.

  He looked into Cromwell’s eyes, never having met him, and in that instant judged his decision to be a sound one. Cromwell returned his gaze unswervingly, and he sensed that the bitter years of survival as a slave had bred a toughness in the young man that few of this generation now had, having grown up in a world of peace.

  He was almost as tall as Andrew at six foot four and slender to the
point of looking gaunt, a clear sign of the malnourishment he had suffered as a child growing up a slave in the enemy camps. But it was evident that he was hard, his wiry frame taut and strong. His left cheek was marked with a pale scar that cut from the ear to the corner of his mouth, most likely a blow from a whip or dagger, and Andrew suspected that if this young man took his dress uniform off, a body cut by such scars would be revealed.

  Millions of Chin and Cartha had suffered thus when the Hordes had stopped in their migrations to fight the Republic, turning the people of those two nations into slaves and a source of food. That any of the children of that generation had survived was a miracle. When the Merki had abandoned the Cartha realm, they had systematically slaughtered more than a million people. Cromwell was but one of a few thousand children to survive the nightmare.

  His grip was firm. He hesitated for a second, then finally spoke.

  “Mr. President, thank you for intervening on my behalf.”

  “Don’t thank me, Cromwell. Though some do not care for the name you carry, I will say that I knew your father and believe the reports that in his last seconds he had a change of heart and died serving the Republic. I think we’ve made a good bet on you, son. Just prove us right.”

  Cromwell solemnly nodded his thanks, his dark features again revealing a toughness that Andrew sensed could be dangerous in a fight.

  “Father, we got our orders. We head out this evening and, well, we sort of want to . . Abraham’s voice trailed off.

  Andrew looked back at his son. Such a contrast, he thought, between his own boy and Cromwell. Abraham, bom after the war, had known only peace and saw the old conflict in a hazy, romantic light. Cromwell was old enough to know different and had been shaped by that knowledge. Andrew wondered how his boy would look a year from now and felt a sudden stab of fear.

  Things were happening, out in their adopted world, and all his old instincts told him that there was a storm on the horizon. He feared it would soon wash over them and perhaps sweep his son away.

  Abraham was waiting for an answer, and Andrew forced a smile. “I know, head down to the Mouse for a few.”