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THE EXPANSION SERIES
PUBLISHER’S PACK

BOOKS ONE & TWO

DEVON C. FORD
BOOK ONE

RECON
 This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Any names, characters, incidents and
locations portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. No affiliation is
implied or intended to any organisation or recognisable body mentioned within.

Copyright © DHP Publishing 2018

Devon C Ford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. By
payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive and non-
transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen or hard copy.
No part of the text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled,
reverse engineered or stored in or introduced into any information storage or
retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, known or
otherwise yet invented, without the express permission of Devon C Ford and DHP
Publishing.

www.devoncford.com

Cover design by Jamie Glover at:

www.ceruleanfuture.com
“The Earth is the cradle of humanity, but mankind cannot stay in the
cradle forever.”

Konstantin Tsiolkovsky
 PROLOGUE

Prologue – Lunar Arrivals Port

“What was that?” Jake Santana asked, his ears pricking up and his
brow knitted.
“What was what?” Jamie Paterson answered. His head was half-
buried in a shipping container full of machine parts.
“I heard it too,” the young ensign, Kyle Torres said ominously. “It
sounded like it came from the arrivals area. Come on.”
The three of them walked out of the freight hangar, where the
pilot and crew of the detained ship were waving their arms and
shouting about their rights being infringed. Jake and the others
ignored them, hearing more sounds that made their spines tingle.
“Something ain’t right,” Jake said. His left hand dropped to the
service pistol holstered on his thigh and hovered there. The standing
orders not to draw a weapon unless fired upon echoed around his
skull. He didn’t draw it, but he kept that hand on the grip, which
made him swing the other arm awkwardly as he ran. They rounded
a corner, hearing shouts of alarm interspersed with gunfire, then put
their heads down and ran the two-hundred-meter length of the
tunnel separating them from the main part of the lunar space port.
“Alpha one from alpha one three,” Torres squeaked into his radio
mic, the panic making his voice sound younger and more vulnerable
than he already was.
 Jamie looked to him, and received a shake of the head when no
answer came. Jamie tried his own radio, shouting the hail louder and
more firmly than Torres had done. He repeated the call, but heard
nothing back.
As they neared the end of the tunnel, all three breathing heavily
from the run, Jake decided to complete the trifecta and try his own
radio.
“Alpha one fr…”
A scream tore the air, a person bellowing in guttural pain or
anger, followed by the high-pitched, chattering thrum of automatic
gunfire.
Their radios erupted as one and the gravelly sound of their
commanding officer’s voice filled their minds.
“All hands, this is Commander Dassiova. Lunar Port is under
attack. I say again, we are under attack. All hands: battle stations.
All hands: battle stations.”
The warning sobered everyone who heard it. Jake, Torres and
Jamie all drew their sidearms and stacked up against the wall at the
corner before Jake nodded and stepped out with his gun raised.
Another metallic chatter of rapid-fire rounds answered his
movement, shattering the tiles of the wall and punching holes
through the cover where his head had been only moments before.
“One shooter,” he said, gasping for breath among the dust.
“Automatic weapon. Thirty meters.”
“Draw fire,” Torres said, his voice rising in the panic.
“No,” Jake snapped. “Keep your head down.”
“We need to move, Seaman,” Ensign Torres said, a hint of
sudden fire in his words.
“The wheel’s right,” Jamie said as he mocked the young officer.
“We’re pinned down here, and that rifle will puncture the dome if we
don’t take him out soon.”
Jake thought about it, his mouth set into a thin line as he
considered what he had to do. He didn’t like it one bit.
“You two break for cover over there,” he said as he pointed
across the wide tunnel intersection. “I’ll take the shot.”
 They took off, running low and fast and holding their breath for
the few seconds it took for the shooter to dial in their location. The
gun sounded again, plumes of debris erupting behind the two
runners and growing dangerously close to their heels as they darted
across the space. Jake took a breath and stepped out. His gun was
up, sighting along the barrel held steady in both hands to where the
shooter had been. He squeezed off five fast rounds.
The chattering gunfire stopped abruptly as the shooter fell to the
ground. Jake took two long breaths, staring at the body of the first
person he had killed up close. After a beat, he started toward him.
When he was ten paces away the body blossomed in slow-
motion, expanding outward in flame as the explosives strapped to
his chest detonated. It was only a small charge, but it was enough
to blow the body apart and fling the twisted remains of the
automatic rifle past Jake’s head. The velocity would have killed him if
he had been just a pace to his left. The other two caught up with
him. Jamie said nothing, but Ensign Torres looked ashen. Jake
steeled himself and took off at a dead run toward the sound of more
gunfire and screams.

Petty Officer Class Two Leslie Brandt waved two of the grunts from
their squad forward. They had done this with a dozen inbound ships
on their first day on duty. The most effective way to deal with
passenger transport was to bring all of the passengers off and
search the ship. They would then separate crew and civilians before
searching them through a form of immigration, where their travel
documentation and identification scans were completed. It was
laborious, time-consuming and none of them felt good about
detaining the civilians travelling to and from the Moon. After all, they
were just going to work after it had been opened up for commercial
travel less than half a year ago.
Most of the construction teams rotated every six months. They
lived and worked on the surface of the Moon under the domes and
new energy shields, but the human traffic between the Moon and
Earth was still relatively new and subject to security measures.
Through her earpiece, Brandt heard that another ship was
inbound, this one bearing a construction team due to swap with the
raucous group currently in departures. Their banter made it clear the
waiting group was eager to get back planet-side and spend the
double wages they’d earned over the last half-year. There was barely
anything on the surface of the Moon to spend them on. One of the
other squads was patrolling and searching other areas, and Brandt
didn’t know if she or they had drawn the short straw. She left a third
seaman overlooking the ship being searched as the passengers
clutched their luggage and waited in line to be processed.
Brandt walked toward the newly arrived ship as it taxied through
the airlock. The door popped its seal, hissing as it opened, and the
metal staircase was rolled toward the opening. Brandt prepared to
go through the same scripted speech, pulling the card from her leg
pocket beneath the holstered sidearm, and putting on her fake
smile.
“Welcome to Lunar Arrivals,” she began. “On behalf of the
combined terr…”
She didn’t finish her greeting. Gunfire erupted from the dark
recess inside the ship above her, spraying out wildly and causing
instant chaos inside the arrivals hangar. Brandt went down, two
small rounds puncturing her lower torso, but miraculously missing
everything vital. Her head hit the edge of the steps and knocked her
out cold as rapid footsteps stomped down the metal ladder.

The group calling themselves The Freedom to Choose was the cause
for the heightened terrorist threat their unit had been briefed about.
The group had made public declarations of hostility toward the four
main colliders on Earth, the energy source creation machines
established to create and harness singularities. This threat had
resulted in entire divisions of the United Nations Peacekeeping Force
being deployed to push the no-go and no-fly zone out miles further
away from the enormous machines.
The Freedom to Choose objected to humanity pushing the
bounds of their natural state and leaving the planet to colonize the
closest body in space. They were mostly just making noise until the
plans to create the energy-domed colonies on Mars were
announced.
Then the splinter faction of the group, The Choosers, decided on
a militant approach. They took up arms to hamper the efforts of the
UNPF and private corporations as they spread humanity’s
metaphorical wings across the galaxy.
What had started as a legitimate political movement, like
countless other times in human history, had festered and mutated
away from its original goals to become something far more
dangerous and corrupt than anyone could have envisioned.
The singularity drives, powered by the new energy source in
mass production all over the globe, were capable of continual
acceleration in the vacuum of space. This allowed for a journey of
less than six hours to reach the Moon. This new technology put Mars
colonization well within reach, and the teams working to build the
domes to sustain life had been there for almost a decade already,
building the basic infrastructure before the expansion plan kicked
into high gear.
The Mars program was officially based at the lunar base and was
predominantly staffed by private companies with little to no UNPF or
CTSF, the Combined Territories Security Forces, interaction. They
operated on the Moon because it was the one place left they could
work outside the law; they claimed their own land and made their
own rules just like in the wild west.
But still, The Choosers had never conducted military-scale attacks
before, and Brandt’s men and women were unprepared, poorly
armed and caught totally by surprise.
Armed men and women sprayed indiscriminate bullets everywhere
as they flooded off the transport shuttle and into arrivals.
From the way The Choosers conducted the attack, it was obvious
they were on a suicide mission. After the duty unit responded and
drew their sidearms to concentrate their fire at the foot of the metal
stairs, the invaders’ intention was clear. One of the terrorists was hit,
collapsing forward with flailing limbs to make the others scatter
panicked away from their downed body. Seconds later the attacker
detonated, a suicide vest rigged to their biometrics blowing savagely
as the heart stopped and the bomb timer started. The terrorists
continued the attack, spreading out and overwhelming the too-few
defenders rapidly as pockets of leaderless peacekeepers were pinned
down by the superior firepower. There were no heavy-weapon
platforms, no automated gun systems and no armed drone
surveillance programs operating. The place was still treated as a
frontier outstation.
The secured doors leading out of the area closed in their attack.
Other than the hangar airlocks, the only other way out was the long
service tunnel to the freight arrival dock. A large pallet containing
what looked like a bomb was unloaded from the newly arrived
shuttle hovering six inches from the ground, courtesy of the four
repulser jets at each corner propelling it quickly across the open
space toward the dome edge. The way the terrorists treated it with
almost equal care and fear combined with the wires and makeup of
the device screamed bomb to anyone watching.
The sporadic gun battles had faded, becoming an occasional
outbreak of firing as both sides ran low on ammunition. Just as the
bomb was bumped into the inner dome, a group of three UNPF burst
from the access tunnel and sprayed the three terrorists arming the
device. If they weren’t stopped it would rip open the dome and
depressurize them all out into space.

Jake was sweating and out of breath when he reached the main
arrivals hangar, more from the adrenaline than the physical exercise.
Glancing around the corner, he realized they were on the near side
of what looked like an explosive device. It seemed to be being
rigged to blow underneath one of the main support beams of the
huge dome. He ducked back and filled the others in.
“Bomb,” he said, his eyes wide with adrenalized fear. “They’re
trying to blow the goddamned dome!”
“We can’t let that happen,” Torres said, stating the obvious with
all the manly gusto he could summon.
“Duh,” Paterson said, embarrassing the boy. “Not if we like
living.”
“On three,” Jake said as he gripped his service pistol, which felt
inadequate for the challenge. “One, two… three.”

They stepped out and opened fire, dropping the three people rigging
the device as the small 6mm subsonic rounds drilled into their
bodies and expanded on impact. Their bodies exploded before the
three ambushers reached them. Jake saw the detonator—the
flashing lights of the display indicated ‘ready’ beside a red button
with the clear plastic safety shield raised.
Movement to his right caught his eye as another terrorist burst
into view; he was a ragged-looking man about Jake’s age but his
eyes displayed none of the discipline and belief that the seaman
possessed. The two men raised their guns at one another. Both
pulled their triggers at the same time, and both guns clicked. Jake’s
gun had run dry and the old machine gun in the hands of the
terrorist jammed. Both men’s eyes went wide, and both reacted at
the same time.
Jake stepped back, dropping the magazine out and grabbing
another from his right hip to slap it forward into the gun. He almost
made it but having to keep his eyes on the advancing terrorist threw
off his aim and the magazine struck the housing and didn’t sit
snugly. He glanced down to try and make it fit, to will it into the
housing so he could draw back the slide and drill the bastard. He’d
keep shooting until the gun clicked dry once more. Jake finally
managed to get the magazine in and grip the short slide to feed a
round into the chamber just as his eyes met his attacker’s. He pulled
the trigger, snatching it fast and repeatedly to pump bullet after
bullet into his chest.
But the other man didn’t go down.
Each report of Jake’s pistol was answered by the sound of
crackling electricity and a metallic thudding noise. Every shot he
fired just bounced off the man who was quickly on him, knocking the
gun from his grasp. They grappled. Jake maneuvered to allow the
forward momentum of his attacker to become his downfall. He took
two fast paces backward, grabbing the man’s collar below his
snarling mouth and throwing his right leg up and over the man’s
neck as he spun to bring him down. This was what his training had
taught him to do through repetition. They landed in a heap, Jake’s
strong, conditioned arms and legs wrapped around his thinner
opponent. He doubled down on his hold to choke his scrawny neck
between his thighs.
The man was trapped, choking slowly and powerless to break
free of the robust hold the soldier had on his throat. His right hand
fluttered at Jake’s groin, weakly trying to grab his balls and use them
as the key to open the lock, but Jake snatched hold of his wrist and
pulled it tight.
The terrorist’s eyes bulged from the added pressure and pain. His
focus darted to the sparking cable lying between the blood and
viscera beside them. It had been damaged by the explosion of one
of his own people. The man’s eyes darted back to Jake’s again, just
as his left hand made a desperate grab for the cable.
Jake made an instant, instinctive judgment call and released his
prisoner, unwrapping his legs and rolling away like he had been
electrocuted, which was exactly what he feared. Instead of frying
him, though, the terrorist grabbed the cable and thrust the exposed
live wire into his own mouth. He jerked like a landed fish, and as the
electricity stopped his heart, it also stopped and started the one-
second fuse to detonate the device on his chest.
Jake rolled in panic, but he couldn’t get away fast enough. Just
as he got to his feet in a crouch, the bomb went off. The blast had
been contained and shaped to explode outward like a wide blade of
unstoppable energy, cutting Jake’s legs off in a spray of red mist as
it atomized everything between his thighs and his ankles.
His right arm was blown away in ragged, spinning chunks by
shrapnel thrown in the blast and some of those same fragments
embedded themselves in his back and skull.
His eardrums imploded with the concussive force of the
detonation, and the world went dark for him in a blinded instant.

Leslie Brandt opened her eyes and blinked herself back into
consciousness. The pain ravaged her left flank where the bullets had
passed through her flesh. She was dazed, confused, and her eyes
focused on the distant view of Jake reloading his pistol faster than
she had ever seen.
She saw the muzzle flashes, saw the man who wasn’t wearing
visible armor keep coming at him. It was like this man was wired on
stims in order to feel no pain. Instead of going down, he threw
himself at her friend. She saw Jake incapacitate him and smiled a
little to herself. There was nobody in their squad better at grappling
on the mats than he was. But that smile turned to horror, then to
fear as she saw him scrambling to escape.
She watched the explosion, watched his almost limbless body
flung away at an odd angle. The ravaged and burned torso spun
sickeningly to a stop thirty paces from her. She began to crawl to
him, willing her arms and legs to move faster. But just as she
reached desperately from a dozen paces away to try and touch him,
her consciousness fled and left her in the same inky dark.
 1

THE PREVIOUS DAY, LUNAR APPROACH

“Aw, man,” Jamie Paterson said as he craned his neck against the
restraints to see out of the small window. “Would you look at that.”
Jake and Leslie tried to look, but only Paterson’s above-average
height allowed him to see the lunar docks. Leslie looked at Jake and
tried to convey her annoyance through the visor of her helmet. The
suit’s software had mirrored the glass against exposure to sunlight
and all he could see was his own helmet’s image reflected back at
him.
“Home for the next sixteen months,” she said. The armor
distorted her normally toneless voice into a tinny sound coming out
of the speakers. It was barely audible over the noise of the UNPF
lunar transport shuttle, but that internal vibration was nothing
compared to the noise it made breaking atmosphere before the five-
and-a-half-hour journey to the Moon. The tour for their unit, all one
hundred and ten of them, was eighteen months. But for Jake, Jamie
and Leslie, who had first met when they walked into basic training in
Cuba a little over three and a half years ago, it would be less. Their
assigned service was due to end before their deployment did.
Signing their lives away, for five years at least, had been a
monumental moment in each of their lives before they were
inducted, hazed, bullied, trained and molded into the capable men
and women of the United Nations Peacekeeping Force of the
American Territories.
 When they passed through their intensive training course and
waited to find out where they would be scattered to, none of them
would have guessed that they would have stayed together the whole
time. The three were all given the same assignments until their unit
was rotated out of UNPF and into CTSF, the Combined Territories
Security Forces, for their overseas tour.
Overseas, in this case, referred to through space. Sixteen months
patrolling, searching and monitoring the almost forty thousand
people living and working on the Moon’s surface.
“And I bet the food is every bit as shitty as we’ve heard,” Jake
Santana answered drily, his own suit speakers sounding just as tinny
but managing to convey his boredom. A young man with simple
needs, Santana had left home after high school to make things
easier on his mom, who had his younger siblings to feed and look
after. For him, as professional and capable as he was, it was all
about the food.
“Cut the chatter, shitbirds,” Master Petty Officer Kip Carter
growled at them, the speakers on his armor turned up to make his
voice carry.
He cut over two junior officers and two less senior NCOs to
deliver the reprimand, and all four of those men and women kept
their heads facing forward or looked down at the deck. The only
signs marking them as different were the white flashes or simple
stars painted over their right shoulders. They all wore the same
regulation armor with their visored helmets on. The commander had
ordered the entire unit to keep their armor and helmets secured and
pressurized, after a transport ship from the African territory suffered
a pressure loss recently. That incident had killed half a unit, along
with their senior Non-Comm. The commander didn’t want to take
any chances, so his men and women split over two ships had to
spend the entire journey closed down inside their rigs, which was
uncomfortable and claustrophobic, to say the least.
They cut their chatter, each finding their own thoughts or trying
to steal a glance out of the few windows, hoping to see the series of
rigid geometric domes that provided most of the livable atmosphere
on the Moon.
 Their ship, the lead of the two containing the unit and their
supplies, swung in and settled horizontally to rotate its back end
around on a central axis and reverse slowly on its maneuvering
thrusters. It docked into one of the twelve wide hangars sprouting
out of the large dome, which was the main space port.
The light through the small windows darkened, and was replaced
by the dull blinks of the emergency lighting inside the vast space.
Both ships could easily have fit inside there, but safety protocols
dictated that incoming flights had to be one ship per landing area.
Anything to avoid another preventable but massive loss of life. The
commander himself was on their ship, which might have sounded
daunting to anyone new to the unit but was the far better option.
The command chief, the unit’s most senior non-commissioned officer,
would be travelling in charge of the other ship, and he was not a
man to upset.
With a clank and a hiss from outside the hull—sound carrying
once more was evidence that they were back in atmosphere—the
struts of the ship flexed under the weight of the ungainly and lumpy
transport bird as it settled down. The sounds faded as though
everything was powering down, and the loudspeaker on the
commander’s suit barked loudly into life.
“Welcome to Lunar Port. Now get your shit together and prepare
to work.”

“Look,” Jake said as he dumped his kit bag on the bottom bunk of
his rack, “all I’m saying is that it’s worth it for the money alone, not
to mention all the other stuff.”
“Hell, yeah,” Paterson answered. “Sixteen long, cold, boring
months and I’m going back home to get my degree.”
The others rolled their eyes. They had heard this before.
Paterson had talked about nothing else for the entire time they had
known him, to the point where they probably knew his career and
life goals better than the man himself. He’d finished high school,
graduating in the top twelve percent in the territory for grade scores,
but since he was from a poor family with no political or military
connections, he had no chance of paying for his higher education.
He wasn’t genius enough to get a scholarship—those had been
handed out to ten-year-olds occupying the top one percent—so he
did the only thing he could to realize his dream: he joined the UNPF
to get sponsorship for his education. He was clever, annoyingly
clever in fact, and he loved to point out just how smart he was to
anyone who would tolerate him. In spite of this, he fit in with the
others and wasn’t always a dick. His brains came in handy in basic
training when their problem-solving tests, usually involving some
horrendous weather condition or other mortal peril, were rapidly
solved by his keen intellect.
“Well, both of your dumb asses are wrong,” Leslie Brandt said
from atop the next bunk over, “because you’re both missing the
bigger picture.”
It was Jake and Jamie’s turn to roll their eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Jake said to try and stem the wave of
propaganda he knew that she was about to spew out. “There’s more
to life than our own selfish desires, think about the planet as a
whole, what we can do for humanity, yadda yadda…” He paused as
he saw Brandt’s eyes narrow at him.
“I’m just saying that you two should think about it,” she said
flatly. “There’s nothing wasted about a life spent in service.”
“So, what?” Jamie asked her. “You’re going to spend a year and a
half on this frozen rock, then go home and sign on the dotted line
again? For good? Forever?”
“Maybe,” she said hesitantly. “It’s the only way to get fast-
tracked.”
Jake rested his face in his hands, although slowly and
surreptitiously so as not to invite her wrath. She had been drunk on
the UNPF’s propaganda ever since she’d earned the single white
stripe over her right shoulder during their long training period.
Although she still ate, slept and trained with the rest of the squad,
they knew that she had designs far above the lowly rank of petty
officer class two.
 Fast-track meant that she would have to undergo a program of
high-stress testing, would have each of her mission and training
progress reports picked apart and would have to jump through a
dozen other hoops before they accepted her. If they did, if by some
miracle she made it through, then she would have signed her entire
life into service with the UNPF in return for a speedy promotion
course to the rank of commander. She wouldn’t get the same perks
that the others did, wouldn’t get the additional pay bump to be
received tax-free when they got back to Earth after an overseas tour
with CTSF off-world, but she would be rewarded with a grueling
training program which would see her rise through the officer ranks
quickly.
“Alright, assholes,” the harsh voice of Master Petty Officer Carter
announced as he stalked into the room. His words had the desired
effect, as though someone had bawled for them to stand to
attention. The two squads lined up at the foot of their bunks.
He walked tall, still wearing his armor, only minus the helmet
now, whereas most of the squad members had at least stripped off
the heavy chest and back plates.
“Guard and Recon,” Carter said, addressing them by their
unofficial names dictated by their specialized roles.
Jake, Jamie and Leslie’s was the Recon squad, and they were
trained for exactly that, whereas the Guard squad was more into
heavy weapons. The other six squads of their unit, numbered three
to eight, would be doubled-up in identical barracks on the same gray
corridor in the same dull barracks that seemed to be designed the
same way no matter the location in the inhabited galaxy.
“PO2s and ensigns by the door as usual. Don’t screw about and
in return I promise I won’t make it my personal mission to rearrange
your internals. Rectally.” Carter paused to eyeball the nearest
seaman, daring him to hold the contact. “Mission briefing in thirty, so
strip and stow your gear.” With that, he turned to stalk out of the
room. The young lieutenant hot on his heels was too scared of the
man to offer confrontational confirmation that he outranked him.
A chorus of ‘aye, aye,’ echoed after them before the normal buzz
of chatter resumed.
 The lieutenants, each in charge of a pair of ten-man squads,
would have separate quarters. They would be sharing, as would the
petty officer class one ranks, but from there on up, rank held the
privilege of privacy. The master POs, usually called ‘Boss’ by the
seamen under their command—calling someone master had a
number of different and often awkward connotations to it—would
have their own small quarters. Those ranks had the responsibility of
over half of the unit each and reported to the two men who really
ran the show.
The unit’s commander, a man named Dassiova, was a hard-bitten
soldier who was the veteran of a number of Earth conflicts and was
widely renowned as one of the best. Rumor had it that he had been
offered promotion back to Earth half a dozen times, going back to an
elevated command position or an admiralship or else to take charge
of training at one of the biggest academies, and each time he had
refused. Dassiova preferred to stay at the sharp edge of UNPF
service. This was his third lunar tour, his first since returning from
another stint on the Close Protection teams, UNPF’s elite Special
Operations teams. Although he was one of the most highly
respected UNPF unit commanders there was, their command chief
and senior NCO was all that and then some.
“Fast-track or not,” Jake said when the room had returned to
normal, “I’ll be glad to get back home and not have to trust domes
and shield units to stop my eyeballs from being sucked out into
space while my body flash-freezes.”
He turned, slapping a hand twice on his shoulder for Paterson to
unclip the heavy armor. The equipment had been designed to be put
on and taken off by the user alone, but that user had to be double-
jointed to do it without injuring themselves.
Brandt said nothing as she stowed her own armor in the locker.
The lockers must have been specifically and intentionally designed to
be only ninety percent big enough to hold their gear.
She pulled on her uniform jacket, brushing out the creases
caused by being rolled up in her bag on the journey up from Earth,
and clipped on the duty belt with its empty sidearm holster and
pouches. Fully armored or not, none of them would be carrying a
weapon until issued with them by the lunar armory master petty
officer.
“Ready in fifteen,” she said, raising her voice for her squad of ten
seamen to mutter their aye, ayes.
“Isn’t that the wheel’s job?” Jake asked her, his voice just loud
enough for the sixteen-year-old ensign to hear.
They were called ‘wheels’ by everyone after an old saying about
something useless being the fifth wheel. However, seeing as all of
their vehicles were at least six-wheeled the saying had lost its
meaning. The wheel himself, Kyle Torres, pretended not to hear the
seaman’s slight at his expense and carried on unpacking his gear.
The top bunk he had been relegated to, the one nearest the door so
that he could supposedly keep an eye on the comings and goings of
his squad, seemed too high for him to reach without clambering up
the end of the frame like a child.
“Can it, Santana,” Brandt told Jake, trying not to smile.
 2

UNPF BARRACKS, LUNAR BASE

“The terrorism threat level remains at severe,” Commander Dassiova

growled from the dais, “but we are not here as an overt armed
force. Our task is to patrol, engage, gather any relevant intelligence
and pass that back up the chain of command. Full battle armor will
be maintained at all times but stowed in barracks, and only sidearms
and stun batons will be issued. Now, for the sake of not doing too
many goddamned administrative duties, these weapons will be
personal issue and will not be recalled at the end of duty shifts, but,”
he paused to glare at the entire assembled unit, “if anyone, and I
mean anyone decides to misuse, misplace one or in any way cause
me to hear your name in a sentence that involves anything other
than your sterling effort and gleaming hard work, then I will
personally guarantee you will find yourselves walking back to Earth
at the end of your tour. And that is if you’re lucky. Chief?”
The commander stepped back, taking his small sheaf of
paperwork and looking just as pissed off as everyone else was to be
babysitting a boring-but-potentially-hostile environment. He’d rather
be fully armored and tooled-up ready for anything. The command
chief petty officer was a bull of a man standing at a flat six feet tall,
and with more presence than should be humanly possible. He was a
legend in the UNPF and had been one of the NCOs traded between
territories a decade earlier as part of the cross-training plans to
standardize the Earth’s security forces.
 Originally from Nigeria, Afamefuna Onyilogwu found it much
easier to go by his title of ‘Chief’ and was rumored to have issued a
significant amount of punishment to those junior ranks who
attempted to pronounce his surname and failed. Those junior ranks
included, if rumor was to be believed, a number of lieutenant
commanders.
“Listen up, people,” he snapped. “We will do this by the numbers.
Squad lieutenants have your duty rotations and areas of
responsibility. All of you will eventually learn these areas as well as
those on either side of your own. Our standard of interaction is to be
friendly and courteous, and only to resort to force if verbal
commands are not obeyed.” He looked around the assembled squad,
somehow managing to eyeball every one of the eighty seamen,
fourteen NCOs and fourteen officers deemed to be under the level of
himself and the commander. “This I will repeat, just in case any of
you are feeling a little hard of hearing: We do not use force unless
we have to, and nobody will discharge their sidearm unless they are
being shot at, is that clear?”
A loud collective shout of aye, aye blasted the room and Chief
waited for silence once more.
“And one last thing, anyone caught using the stun batons on one
another in the barracks will personally answer to me.”
The quiet threat sucked the oxygen out of the room as quickly as
if a seal had cracked on the large dome they were under.
Squad by squad, they filed out of the briefing area in reverse
order, leaving the Recon squad last out. They waited for their turn to
shuffle toward the armory and be given their standard issue 6mm
Universal Service Pistols as well as the stun batons. They were more
excited about the batons in the childish and mischievous way Chief
had expected. There was a running bet going around each squad as
to who would be the first to mess up and shock themselves, and
Chief’s warning underlined the fact that walls had ears.
Their use of firearms was heavily limited because almost half of
the lunar colony was still protected from the vacuum of space by
physical double-skinned domes and not the new large forcefields
generated by the latest generation of singularity energy sources.
These forcefield domes could withstand a heavy supersonic round
from their 12mm Squad Support Weapons, but the physical domes
were at risk from anything bigger than the 6mm subsonic
ammunition. Their main weapon, the imaginatively named Universal
Service Rifle was a bullpup carbine firing the same caliber of
ammunition as the pistols but with an option to increase the charge
and fire the round supersonically. Those rounds could, in theory,
penetrate the dome, which is why their guns remained locked up
tightly.
“What area have we got, Les?” Jake asked.
“Pipe down and get a grip,” she told him. “You’ll find out when
you find out.”
Paterson caught Jake’s eye and the two exchanged a knowing
look.
Get a grip? She doesn’t know either.
They waited, their lieutenant calling them calmly to wait in line to
scan their hands against the greasy tablet in exchange for a stubby
sidearm, three spare magazines, and lastly, their telescopic baton.
They had to stand inside a marked safety area and draw it to make
sure it crackled into life, before demonstrating that they could safely
collapse it and stop the flow of sixty thousand volts. After that, they
went down the line to the loading area where they loaded their
three magazines, and placed one into the weapon ahead of the
pistol grip. Next, they pointed them into the heavy rubber curtains in
front of the big drums filled with the dust from the Moon’s surface
meant to smother any errant discharge. They applied their safety
catches, showed the petty officer in charge of the station, and
holstered the guns.
Jake, unique among his squad and often mocked for being left
handed, quickly went through the practiced process of breaking
down the weapon to switch the ejection port from right to left,
before replacing the top slide and loading his weapon.
Getting back to their barracks and looking around to make sure
nobody senior was present, they drew their stun batons and pushed
their luck as far as they dared by feigning tasering each other.
 “Officer on deck!” barked the petty officer class one in charge of
the two squads in the barrack room. As one, they snapped to
attention, running to stand by the end of their beds and pretend
they weren’t playing with their newly issued weaponry. The
lieutenant walked in, no doubt having sent the NCO ahead to make
sure that nobody was witnessed disobeying Chief’s standing orders,
then called for the ensigns and NCOs from each squad to form on
him.
Santana and Paterson strained to overhear the orders, without
success. The lieutenant left with his NCO, and Leslie returned to
Recon squad where the others gathered around her.
“Our area,” said a small voice from halfway behind her, “is lunar
spaceport arrivals.” All eyes turned to the young ensign, Torres, and
he seemed to deflate slightly under their combined gaze. Unsure of
himself, he glanced up to Brandt.
“Twelve-hour rotations,” she said. “We’ve scored the day shift
working six ‘til six. Guard Squad get the night shift. We do that for
six days at a time, then we get seventy-two hours stand-down. That
means we are off duty now until muster at oh-four-hundred for PT
and biscuits. Briefing at oh-five-forty-five. Questions?”
“What’s our remit?” asked a seaman to her left.
“We are on customs and search,” she said. “We’ll rotate, but we’ll
have three on cargo search under the command of Ensign Torres,
the rest of you are on patrol and inbound-outbound checks. Brush
up on your search techniques tonight.”
“Where’s O-O-B?” Paterson asked.
“Technically nothing is out of bounds,” Brandt said, “but you will
all stick to the barracks compound: head, gym, mess hall, and crash
deck. Let us get a grip of things and we’ll see about shore leave.”
The crash deck, as they called it, was their designated area for
enlisted men and women to relax off-duty. It was bad etiquette for
officers and senior NCOs—master petty officers and above—to invite
themselves in, but the payoff was that the enlisted ranks kept the
place clean and didn’t do anything so raucous as to warrant their
presence.
 The squad melted away to finish stowing their gear and try to fit
the square pegs in the round holes, given their too-small lockers. In
the end, a requisition for two dozen footlockers was made and
rapidly approved, dispelling the myth of UNPF administrative
bureaucracy taking over a month to approve more toilet paper. They
ate, the food being just as awful as Jake had predicted, then hung
around to check out the facilities, before hitting their bunks in the
half-empty room as Guard Squad had already left for their night
shift.

Four in the morning came far too quickly, leaving many of them with
the feeling of not having been asleep long enough to conduct a day’s
work. PT was led by one of the squad, as it was one of her two
trained specialisms. It was a quiet affair but still got them sweating.
Something about the unnatural atmosphere and the artificial gravity
made them feel sluggish. They jogged laps around the large
gymnasium, counting down their number and shouting it as they
passed the start line until they reached five miles. As they ran,
Santana and Paterson talked.
“You seen one of those new shield domes yet?” Jake asked,
knowing that if anyone would know about them, his academic friend
would.
“Yeah, just not on this scale. You know they’re actually
terraforming under them? The shields cover, like, thirty miles in each
direction and can hold it for a hundred years. Probably longer. Not
that it’ll wear off or anything because they’ll just replace the
singularity drives powering it.”

The singularity drives were what had caused things to improve for
the human race, though at first they had made things get a whole
lot worse. The discovery of a clean, renewable and incredibly
powerful energy source had ended humanity’s reliance on fossil
fuels. The world erupted into war almost overnight and the United
Nations had extended its power using the new technology until order
was restored to humanity. That left four main territories under a
centralized government. The dominant territory, if there was such a
thing, was the entire amalgamated American continent, and when
the human race finally decided to work together, they achieved great
things. All that was way back in the past though, even before their
grandparents’ time.
“You wait,” Jake said. “One day they’ll figure out how to make
them small enough to fit to our armor instead of just the ships and
planets. That’ll be a game changer.”
“And you think they’d rush to deliver that new tech to us grunts
on the front line?”
Jake thought about it. “Probably not. But, hey, it’s not like I’ll still
be driving a suit when that eventually happens.”

The Moon had been first colonized over eighty years earlier, but the
new wave of technological advances was being implemented and the
surface was being transformed into a version of their own home
planet, using the shield domes to create large circles of atmosphere.
Eventually two massive shield generators were supposed to be
built on the opposing poles of the Moon. Once they were turned on,
the entire moon would be sealed and allow for a breathable
atmosphere to be created. That was after at least fifty years of
terraforming and pumping oxygen and nitrogen into the space where
there used to be nothing. Each flight brought more scientists and
more hydroponic equipment up to the surface to begin transforming
the barren surface into something entirely new.
“Cut the chatter,” barked their PT. “You got air to talk, you got air
to run faster!”
The men kept their chatter to a minimum, continuing their
conversation at a level that didn’t invite the reward of extra push-
ups.
 “You reckon they’ll make the Moon green like Earth?” Jake
whispered.
“No real reason why not,” Paterson answered. “There’s frozen
glaciers here, and as long as the domes don’t fail, then there’s every
chance they can sorta grow an atmosphere underneath. It just has
to happen in—forty-two—” they yelled together as they passed the
start line again, “—stages.”
“But how do they get around the fact that the days are two
weeks long here? And how do they stop the air, you know, leaking
out?”
“A geodesic dome structure sits underneath the actual shield and
creates the artificial day and night,” Paterson explained, the scientist
part of him overtaking the cocky grunt persona he hid behind every
day. “The shielding is the same as the domes in that they actually
extend pretty far underground.”
“I thought you were some physics dude?” Jake asked him, “Not
into all this terraforming stuff...”
“Dude,” Paterson told him, mocking his Californian accent, “read
a datapad…”

At forty-six they stopped, dropping into push-ups and sit-ups in

pairs. Jake and Jamie earned an extra ten of each to prove that their
PT had known it was they who had been talking.
“Alright,” Brandt said as they formed up to file out of the
gymnasium while Squad Four waited to file in. “Showers and mess
hall for biscuits.”
Biscuits, for reasons none of them understood, were what they
called breakfast in the UNPF. Given their maritime roots, some
believed it was a derivative of ship’s biscuits, but either way it was
more bland food that did nothing for Jake’s high-maintenance taste
buds. Paterson joked that his mother’s cooking had spoiled him, and
now nothing the UNPF could serve him came close to her home-
cooked recipes. They dressed in their uniforms, holstered their
batons and pistols, and moved to report to the lunar docks for duty.
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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Title: El terror de 1824

Author: Benito Pérez Galdós

Release date: October 12, 2023 [eBook #71861]

Language: Spanish

Original publication: Madrid: Obras de Pérez Galdós, 1904

Credits: Ramón Pajares Box. (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian
Libraries.)

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Nota de transcripción

Los errores de imprenta han sido corregidos.

La ortografía del texto original ha sido modernizada de acuerdo con las normas
publicadas en 2010 por la Real Academia Española.
Las rayas intrapárrafos han sido espaciadas según los modernos usos
ortotipográficos.
Las notas a pie de página han sido renumeradas y colocadas al final del párrafo en
que se las llama.
 EPISODIOS NACIONALES

EL TERROR DE 1824
 Es propiedad. Queda hecho el depósito
que marca la ley. Serán furtivos los
ejemplares que no lleven el sello del autor
 B. PÉREZ GALDÓS
EPISODIOS NACIONALES
SEGUNDA SERIE

EL TERROR DE 1824

32.000

MA DRID
O B RAS DE P É RE Z G AL DÓ S
132, Hortaleza
1904
EST. TIP. DE LA VIUDA E HIJOS DE TELLO
IMPRESOR DE CÁMARA DE S. M.
C. de San Francisco, 4.
 EL TERROR DE 1824

En la tarde del 2 de octubre de 1823 un anciano bajaba con paso

tan precipitado como inseguro por las afueras de la Puerta de Toledo
en dirección al puente del mismo nombre. Llovía menudamente, sin
cesar, según la usanza del hermoso cielo cuando se enturbia, y la
ronda podía competir en lodos con su vecino Manzanares, el cual
hinchándose como la madera cuando se moja, extendía su saliva
fangosa por gran parte del cauce que le permiten los inviernos. E
anciano transeúnte marchaba con pie resuelto, sin que le causara
estorbo la lluvia, con el pantalón recogido hasta la pantorrilla
chapoteando sin embarazo en el lodo con las destrozadas botas. Iba
estrechamente forrado, como tizona en vaina, en añoso gabán oscuro
cuyo borde y solapa se sujetaba con alfileres allí donde no había
botones, y con los agarrotados dedos en la parte del pecho, como la
más necesitada de defensa contra la humedad y el frío. Hundía la
barba y media cara en el alzacuello, tieso como una pared
cubriéndose con él las orejas y el ala posterior del sombrero, que
destilaba agua como cabeza de tritón en fuente de Reales Sitios. No
llevaba paraguas ni bastón. Mirando sin cesar al suelo, daba unos
suspiros que competían con las ráfagas de aire. ¡Infelicísimo varón
¡Cuán claramente pregonaban su desdichada suerte el roto vestido
las horadadas botas, el casquete húmedo, la aterida cabeza, y aque
continuo suspirar casi al compás de los pasos! Parecía un
desesperado que iba derecho a descargar sobre el río el fardo de una
vida harto enojosa para llevarla más tiempo. No obstante, pasó por e
puente sin mirar al agua, y no se detuvo hasta el parador situado en la
divisoria de los caminos de Toledo y Andalucía.
 Bajo el cobertizo destinado a los alcabaleros y gente del fisco
había hasta dos docenas de hombres de tropa, entre ellos algunos
oficiales de línea y voluntarios realistas de nuevo cuño en tales días
Los paradores cercanos albergaban una fuerza considerable, cuya
misión era guardar aquella principalísima entrada de la corte, ignorante
aún de los sucesos que en el último confín de la Península habían
cambiado el gobierno de constitucional dudoso en absoluto verídico y
puro, poniendo fin entre bombas certeras y falaces manifiestos a los
tres llamados años. En aquel cuerpo de guardia eran examinados los
pasaportes, vigilando con exquisito esmero las entradas y las salidas
mayormente estas últimas, a fin de que no escurriesen el bulto los
sospechosos ni se pusieran en cobro los revolucionarios, cuya última
cuenta se ajustaría pronto en el tremendo Josafat del despotismo.
Acercose el vejete al grupo de oficiales, y reconociendo
prontamente al que sin duda buscaba, que era joven, adusto y
morenote, bastante adelantado en su marcial carrera como
proclamaban las insignias, díjole con mucho respeto:
—Aquí estoy otra vez, señor coronel Garrote. ¿Tiene vuecencia
alguna buena noticia para mí?
—Ni buena ni mala, señor... ¿cómo se llama usted? —repuso e
militar.
—Patricio Sarmiento, para servir a vuecencia y la compañía
Patricio Sarmiento, el mismo que viste y calza, si esto se puede deci
de mi traje y de mis botas. Patricio Sarmiento, el...
—Pase usted adentro —díjole bruscamente el militar, tomándole po
un brazo y llevándole bajo el cobertizo—. Está usted como una sopa.
Un rumor, del cual podía dudarse si era de burla o de lástima, y
quizás provenía de las dos cosas juntamente, acogió la entrada de
infeliz preceptor en la compañía de los militares.
—Sí, señor Garrote —añadió Sarmiento—; soy, como decía, e
hombre más desgraciado de todo el globo terráqueo. Ese cielo que
nos moja no llora más que lloro en estos días, desde que me han
anunciado como probable, como casi cierta, la muerte de mi querido
hijo Lucas, de mi niño adorado, de aquel que era manso cordero en e
hogar paterno y león indómito en los combates... ¡Ah, señores
¡Ustedes no saben lo que es tener un hijo único, y perderlo en una
escaramuza de Andalucía, por descuidos de un general, o po
intrepidez imprudente de un oficialete!... ¿Pero hay esperanzas
todavía de que tan horrible noticia resulte incierta? ¿Se ha sabido
algo? Por Dios, señor Garrote, ¿ha sabido vuecencia si mi idolatrado
unigénito vive aún, o si feneció en esas tremendas batallas?... ¿Hay
algún parte que lo mencione?..., porque Lucas no podía morir como
cualquiera, no: había de morir ruidosa y gloriosísimamente, de una
manera tal, que dé gusto y juego a los historiadores... ¿Ha sabido algo
vuecencia de ayer acá?
—Nada —repuso Garrote fríamente.
—Ha seis días que vengo todas las tardes, y siempre me dice
vuecencia lo mismo —murmuró Sarmiento con angustia—. ¡Nada!
—Desde el primer día manifesté a usted qué nada podía saber.
—Pero a todas horas entran heridos, soldados dispersos, paisanos
correos que vienen de las Andalucías. ¿Se ha olvidado usted de
preguntar?
—No me he olvidado —indicó el coronel con semblante y tono más
compasivos—; pero nadie, absolutamente nadie, tiene noticia de
miliciano Lucas Sarmiento.
—¡Todo sea por Dios! —exclamó el preceptor mirando al cielo—
¡Qué agonía! Unos me dicen que sucumbió, otros que está herido
gravemente... ¿Han entrado hoy muchos milicianos prisioneros?
—Algunos.
—¿No venía Pujitos?
—¿Y quién es Pujitos?
—¡Oh! Vuecencia no conoce a nuestra gente.
—Soy forastero en Madrid.
—¡Oh! Pasaron aquellos tiempos de gloria —exclamó don Patricio
con lágrimas en los ojos, y declamando con cierto énfasis que no
cuadraba mal a su hueca voz y alta figura—. ¡Todo ha caído, todo es
desolación, muerte y ruinas! Aquellos adalides de la libertad, que
arrancaron a la madre España de las garras del despotismo; aquellos
fieros leones matritenses, que con solo un resoplido de su augusta
cólera desbarataron a la Guardia real, ¿qué se hicieron? ¿Qué se hizo
de la elocuencia que relampagueaba tronando en los cafés, con luz y
estruendo sorprendentes? ¿Qué se hizo de aquellas ideas de
emancipación que inundaban de gozo nuestras corazones? Todo cayó
todo se desvaneció en tinieblas, como lumbre extinguida por la
corriente de las aguas. La oleada de fango frailesco ha venido
arrasándolo todo. ¿Quién la detendrá volviéndola a su inmundo
cauce? ¡Estamos perdidos! La patria muere ahogada en lodaza
repugnante y fétido. Los que vimos sus días gloriosos, cuando al son
de patrióticos himnos eran consagradas públicamente las ideas de
libertad y nos hacíamos todos libres, todos igualmente soberanos, los
recordamos como un sueño placentero que no volverá. Despertamos
en la abyección, y el peso y el rechinar de nuestras cadenas nos
indican que vivimos aún. Las iracundas patas del déspota nos
pisotean, y los frailes nos...
—Basta —gritó una formidable voz interrumpiendo bruscamente a
infeliz dómine—. Para sainete basta ya, señor Sarmiento. Si abusa
usted de la benignidad con que se le toleran sus peroratas en atención
al estado de su cabeza, nos veremos obligados a retirarle las licencias
Esto no se puede resistir. Si los desocupados de Madrid le consienten
a usted que vaya de esquina en esquina y de grupo en grupo
divirtiéndoles con sus necedades y reuniendo tras de sí a los chicos
yo no permito que con pretexto de locura o idiotismo se insulte a
orden político que felizmente nos rige...
—¡Ah, señor Garrote, señor Garrote! —dijo Sarmiento moviendo
tristemente la cabeza y sacudiendo menudas gotas de agua sobre los
circunstantes—. Vuecencia me tapa la boca, que es el único desahogo
de mi alma abrasada... Callaré; pero deme vuecencia nuevas de m
hijo, aunque sean nuevas de su muerte.
Garrote encogió los hombros y ofreció una silla al pobre hombre
que, despreciando el asiento, juzgó más eficaz contra la humedad y e
fresco pasearse de un rincón a otro del cobertizo, dando fuertes
patadas y girando rápidamente, como veleta, al dar las vueltas. Los
demás militares y paisanos armados no ocultaban su regocijo ante la
grotesca figura y ditirámbico estilo del anciano, y cada cual imaginaba
un tema de burla con que zaherirle, mortificándole también en su
persona. Este le decía que Su Majestad pensaba nombrarle ministro
de Estado y llavero del reino; aquel que un ejército de carbonarios
venía por la frontera derecho a restablecer la Constitución; uno le
ponía una banqueta delante para que al pasar tropezase y cayese
otro le disparaba con cerbatana un garbanzo haciendo blanco en e
cogote o la nariz. Pero Sarmiento, atento a cosas más graves que
aquel juego importuno, hijo de un sentimiento grosero y vil, no hacía
caso de nada, y solo contestaba con monosílabos, o llevándose la
mano a la parte dolorida.
 Había pasado más de un cuarto de hora en este indigno ejercicio
cuando de la venta salió un hombre pequeño, doblado, de mezquina
arquitectura, semejante a la de esos edificios bajos y sólidos que no
tienen por objeto la gallarda expresión de un ideal, sino simplemente
servir para cualquier objeto terrestre y positivo. Siendo posible la
comparación de las personas con las obras de arquitectura, y
habiendo quien se asemeja a una torre gótica, a un palacio señorial, a
un minarete árabe, puede decirse de aquel hombre que parecía una
cárcel. Con su musculatura de cal y canto se avenía maravillosamente
una como falta de luces, rasgo misterioso o inexplicable de su
semblante, que a pesar de tener cuanto corresponde al humano
frontispicio, parecía una fachada sin ventanas. Y no eran pequeños
sus ojos ciertamente, ni dejaban de ver con claridad cuanto enfrente
tenían; pero ello es que mirándole no se podía menos de decir: «¡Qué
cara tan oscura!».
Su fisonomía no expresaba cosa alguna, como no fuera una calma
torva, una especie de acecho pacienzudo. Y a pesar de esto no era
feo, ni sus correctas facciones habrían formado mal conjunto s
estuvieran de otra manera combinadas. Tales o cuales cejas, boca o
narices más o menos distantes de la perfección, pueden ser de
agradable visualidad o de horrible aspecto, según cual sea la
misteriosa conexión que forma con ellas una cara. La de aquel hombre
que allí se apareció era ferozmente antipática. Siempre que vemos po
primera vez a una persona, tratamos, sin darnos cuenta de nuestra
investigación, de escudriñar su espíritu y conocer por el mirar, por la
actitud, por la palabra, lo que piensa y desea. Rara vez dejamos de
enriquecer nuestro archivo psicológico con una averiguación preciosa
Pero enfrente de aquel sótano humano el observador se aturdía
diciendo: «Está tan lóbrego que no veo nada».
Vestía de paisano con cierto esmero, y todas cuantas armas
portátiles se conocen llevábalas él sobre sí, lo cual indicaba que era
voluntario realista. Fusil sostenido a la espalda con tirante, sable
machete, bayoneta, pistolas en el cinto, hacían de él una armería en
toda regla. Calzaba botas marciales con espuelas, a pesar de no se
de a caballo; mas este accesorio solían adoptarlo cariñosamente todos
los militares improvisados de uno y otro bando. Chupaba un cigarrillo
y a ratos se pasaba la mano por la cara, afeitada como la de un fraile
pero su habitual resabio nervioso (estos resabios son muy comunes en
el organismo humano) consistía en estar casi siempre moviendo las
mandíbulas como si rumiara o mascullase alguna cosa. Su nombre de
pila era Francisco Romo.
Don Patricio, luego que le vio, llegose a él y le dijo:
—¡Ah, señor Romo! ¡Cuánto me alegro de verlo! Aquí estoy po
sexta vez buscando noticias de mi hijo.
—¿Qué sabemos nosotros de tu hijo ni del hijo del Zancarrón?
Papá Sarmiento, tú estás en Babia... No tardarás mucho en ir a
Nuncio de Toledo... Ven acá, estafermo —al decir esto le tomaba po
un brazo y le llevaba al interior de la venta que servía de cuerpo de
guardia—, ven acá y sirve de algo.
—¿En qué puedo servir al señor Romo? Diga lo que quiera con ta
que no me pida nada de que resulte un bien al absolutismo.
—Es cosa mía —dijo Romo hablando en voz baja y retirándose con
Sarmiento a un rincón donde no pudieran ser oídos—. Tú, aunque
loco, eres hombre capaz de llevar un recado y ser discreto.
—Un recado... ¿a quién?
—A Elenita, la hija de don Benigno Cordero, que vive en tu misma
casa, ¿eh? Me parece que no te vendrán mal tres o cuatro reales..
Este saco de huesos está pidiendo carne. ¿Cuántas horas hace que
no has comido?
—Ya he perdido la cuenta —repuso el preceptor con afligidísimo
semblante, mientras un lagrimón como garbanzo corría por su mejilla.
—Pues bien, carcamal: aquí tienes una peseta. Es para ti si llevas a
la señorita doña Elena...
—¿Qué?
—Esta carta —dijo Romo mostrando una esquela doblada en pico.
—¡Una carta amorosa! —exclamó Sarmiento ruborizándose—
Señor Romo de mis pecados, ¿por quién me toma usted?
El tono de dignidad ofendida con que hablara Sarmiento, irritó de ta
modo al voluntario realista que, empujando brutalmente al anciano, le
vituperó de este modo:
—¡Dromedario! ¿Qué tienes que decir?... Sí, una carta amorosa. ¿Y
qué?
—Que usted es un simple si me toma por alcahuete —dijo don
Patricio con severo acento—. Guarde usted su peseta, y yo me
guardaré mi gana de comer. ¡Por vida de la chilindraina! No faltan
almas caritativas que hagan limosnas sin humillarnos...
 Inflamado en vivísima cólera el voluntario, y sin hallar otras razones
para expresarla que un furibundo terno, descargó sobre el pobre
maestro aburrido uno de esos pescozones de catapulta que abaten de
un golpe las más poderosas naturalezas, y dejándole tendido en tierra
magullados y acardenalados el hocico y la frente, salió del cuerpo de
guardia.
A don Patricio le levantaron casi exánime, y su destartalado cuerpo
se fue estirando poco a poco en la postura vertical, restallándole las
coyunturas como clavijas mohosas. Se pasó la mano por la cara, y
dando un gran suspiro y elevando al cielo los ojos llorosos, exclamó
así con dolorido acento:
—¡Indigno abuso de la fuerza bruta, y de la impunidad que protege
a estos capigorrones!... Si otros fueran los tiempos, otras serían las
nueces... Pero los yunques se han vuelto martillos, y los martillos de
ayer son yunques ahora. ¡Rechilindrona! ¡Malditos sean los instantes
que he vivido después que murió aquella preciosa libertad!...
Y sucediendo la rabia al dolor, se aporreó la cabeza y se mordió los
puños. Habíanle abandonado los que antes le prestaran socorro
porque fuera se sentía gran ruido y salieron todos corriendo al camino
Don Patricio, coronándose dignamente con su sombrero, al cual se
empeñó en devolver su primitiva forma, salió también arrastrado por la
curiosidad.
 II

Era que venían por el camino de Andalucía varias carretas

precedidas y seguidas de gente de armas a pie y a caballo, y aunque
no se veían sino confusos bultos a lo lejos, oíase un son a manera de
quejido, el cual, si al principió pareció lamentaciones de seres
humanos, luego se comprendió provenía del eje de un carro que
chillaba por falta de unto. Aquel áspero lamento, unido a la algazara
que hizo de súbito la mucha gente salida de los paradores y ventas
formaba lúgubre concierto, más lúgubre aún a causa de la tristeza de
la noche. Cuando los carros estuvieron cerca, una voz acatarrada y
becerril gritó: «¡Vivan las caenas! ¡Viva el rey absoluto y muera la
nación!». Respondiole un bramido infernal, como si a una rompieran a
gritar todas las cóleras del averno, y al mismo tiempo la luz de las
hachas, prontamente encendidas, permitió ver las terribles figuras que
formaban procesión tan espantosa. Don Patricio, quizás el único
espectador enemigo de semejante espectáculo, sintió los escalofríos
del terror y una angustia mortal que le retuvo inmóvil y casi sin
respiración por algún tiempo.
Los que custodiaban el convoy y los paisanos que le seguían po
entusiasmo absolutista, estaban manchados de fango hasta los ojos
Algunos traían pañizuelo en la cabeza, otros sombrero ancho; muchos
con el desgreñado cabello al aire, roncos, mojados de pies a cabeza
frenéticos, tocados de una borrachera singular que no se sabe si era
de vino o de venganza, brincaban sobre los baches, agitando un girón
con letras, una bota escuálida o un guitarrillo sin cuerdas. Era una
horrenda mezcla de bacanal, entierro y marcha de triunfo. Oíanse
bandurrias desacordes, carcajadas, panderetazos, votos, ternos
kirieleisones, vivas y mueras, todo mezclado con el lenguaje carreteril
con patadas de animales (no todos cuadrúpedos) y con el cascabeleo
de las colleras. Cuando la caravana se detuvo ante el cuerpo de
guardia, aumentó el ruido. La tropa formó al punto, y una nueva
aclamación al rey neto alborotó los caseríos. Salieron mujeres a las
ventanas, candil en mano, y la multitud se precipitó sobre los carros.
Eran estos galeras comunes con cobertizo de cañas y cama hecha
de pellejos y sacos vacíos. En el delantero venían tres hombres, dos
de ellos armados, sanos y alegres, el tercero enfermo y herido
reclinado doloridamente sobre el camastrón, con grillos en los pies y
una larga cadena que, prendida en la cintura y en una de las muñecas
se enroscaba junto al cuerpo como una culebra. Tenía vendada la
cabeza con un lienzo teñido de sangre, y era su rostro amarillo como
vela de entierro. Le temblaban las carnes, a pesar de disfrutar de
abrigo de una manta, y sus ojos extraviados, así como su anhelante
respiración, anunciaban un estado febril y congojoso. Cuando e
coronel Garrote se acercó al carro, y alzando la linterna que en la
mano traía, miró con vivísima curiosidad al preso, este dijo a media
voz:
—¿Estamos ya en Madrid?
Sin hacer caso de la pregunta, Garrote, cuyo semblante expresaba
el goce de una gran curiosidad satisfecha, dijo:
—¿Conque es usted...?
Uno de los hombres armados que custodiaban al preso en el carro
añadió:
—El héroe de las Cabezas.
Y junto al carro sonó este grito de horrible mofa:
—¡Viva Riego!
Garrote se empeñó en apartar a la gente que rodeaba el carro
apiñándose para ver mejor al preso e insultarle más de cerca.
Un hombre alargó el brazo negro, y tocando con su puño cerrado e
cuello del enfermo, gritó:
—¡Ladrón, ahora las pagarás!
El desgraciado general se recostó en su lecho de sacos, y callaba
aunque harto claramente imploraban compasión sus ojos.
—Fuera de aquí. Señores, a un lado —dijo Garrote, aclarando con
suavidad el grupo de curiosos—. Ya tendrán tiempo de verle a sus
anchas...
—Dicen que la horca será la más alta que se ha visto en Madrid —
indicó uno.
 —Y que se venderán los asientos en la plaza, como en la de toros.
—Pero déjennoslo ver..., por amor de Dios. Si no nos lo comemos
señor coronel —gruñó una dama del parador cercano.
—¡Si no puede con su alma...! ¿Y ese hombre ha revuelto medio
mundo? Que me lo vengan a decir...
—¡Qué facha! ¿Y dicen que este es Riego?... ¡Qué bobería!... S
parece un sacristán que se ha caído de la torre cuando estaba tocando
a muerto...
—Este es tan Riego como yo.
—Os digo que es el mismo. Le vi yo en el teatro cantando el himno.
—El mismo es. Tiene el mismo parecido del retrato que paseaban
por Platerías.
Hasta aquí las mortificaciones fueron de palabra. Pero un grupo de
hombres que habían salido al encuentro de los carros, una gavilla
mitad armada, mitad desnuda, desarrapada, borracha, tan llena de
rabia y cieno que parecía creación espantosa del lodo de los caminos
de la hez de las tinajas y de la nauseabunda atmósfera de los
presidios, un pedazo de populacho, de esos que desgarrándose se
separan del cuerpo de la nación soberana para correr solo
manchando y envileciendo cuanto toca, empezó a gritar con el gruñido
de la cobardía que se finge valiente fiando en la impunidad:
—¡Que nos lo den; que nos entreguen a ese pillo, y nosotros le
ajustaremos la cuenta!
—Señores —dijo Garrote con energía—, atrás; atrás todo el mundo
El preso va a entrar en Madrid.
—Nosotros le llevaremos.
—Atrás todo el mundo.
Y los pocos soldados que allí había, auxiliados con tibieza por los
voluntarios realistas, apartaban a la gente.
Unos corrieron a curiosear en los carros que venían detrás, y otros
se metieron en la venta, donde sonaban seguidillas, castañuelas
desaforados gritos y chillidos. Un cuero de vino, roto por los golpes y
patadas que recibiera, dejaba salir el rojo líquido, y el suelo de la venta
parecía inundado de sangre. Algunos carreteros sedientos se habían
arrojado al suelo y bebían en el arroyo tinto; los que llegaron más tarde
apuraban lo que había en los huecos del empedrado, y los chicos
lamían las piedras fuera de la venta, a riesgo de ser atropellados po
las mulas desenganchadas que iban de la calle a la cuadra, o del tiro
al abrevadero. Poco después veíanse hombres que parecían
degollados con vida, carniceros o verdugos que se hubieran bañado
en la sangre de sus víctimas. El vino, mezclado al barro y tiñendo las
ropas que ya no tenían color, acababa de dar al cuadro en cada una
de sus figuras un tono crudo de matadero, horriblemente repulsivo a la
vista.
Y a la luz de las hachas de viento y de las linternas, las caras
aumentaban en ferocidad, dibujándose más claramente en ellas la risa
entre carnavalesca y fúnebre que formaba el sentido, digámoslo así
de tan extraño cuadro. Como no había cesado de llover, el piso
inundado era como un turbio espejo de lodo y basura, en cuyo crista
se reflejaban los hombres rojos, las rojas teas, las bayonetas bruñidas
las ruedas cubiertas de tierra, los carros, las flacas mulas, las
haraposas mujeres, el ir y venir, la oscilación de las linternas y hasta e
barullo, los relinchos de brutos y hombres, la embriaguez inmunda, y
por último, aquella atmósfera encendida, espesa, suciamente
brumosa, formada por los alientos de la venganza, de la rusticidad y
de la miseria.
En el segundo carro estaban presos también y heridos los
compañeros de Riego, a saber: el capitán don Mariano Bayo, e
teniente coronel piamontés Virginio Vicenti y el inglés Jorge Matías
Don Patricio Sarmiento, que no se atrevió a acercarse al primer carro
se detuvo breve rato junto al segundo, pasó indiferente por el tercero
donde solo venían sacos y un guerrillero con su mujer, y se dirigió a
cuarto, llamado por una voz débil que claramente dijo:
—Señor don Patricio de mi alma... ¡Bendito sea Dios que me
permite verle!
—¡Pujitos!... ¡Pujitos mío!... —exclamó Sarmiento extendiendo sus
brazos dentro del carro—. ¿Eres tú?... Sí, tú mismo... Dime, ¿estás
herido? Por lo visto, también vienes preso.
—Sí señor —repuso el maestro de obra prima—; herido y preso
estoy... Diga usted, ¿nos ahorcarán?
—¿Pues eso quién lo duda?
—¡Infeliz de mí!... Vea usted los lodos en que han venido a para
aquellos polvos. Bien me lo decía mi mujer... Señor don Patricio, al que
está como yo medio muerto de un bayonetazo en la barriga, deberían
dejarle en manos de Dios para que se lo llevase cuando a su Divina
Majestad le diese la gana, ¿no es verdad?
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