The next day, as we came off watch, Ferguson pulled me aside.
“Jim, Mrs. Alvarez had a little talk with me. I need you to be real careful with Freya. She really likes you and I know you like her, but it’s not a good time for you two to get serious.
“But if you do, and you feel like it’s time, I want you to remember that anything worth doing is worth doing right,” he said as he tucked something into my shirt pocket.
I pulled Ferguson’s little gift out that night and looked at it.
It was pill case. Inside, with a rolled up informational brochure, were twelve thirty-day sperm inhibiting contraceptive tablets all lined up in a row.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
.. . Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t dream of it. Carmen Alvarez will kill me if she finds out, but these are different times. I feel like the two kids getting together is inevitable, and Carmen is right about one thing, we don’t need the girl pregnant. Besides, with all the deaths, who knows how long any of us will last, and who am I to deny the kids what happiness they can find in the mean time. May God forgive me if my decision is a wrong one... .
We passed Hell’s-a-Comin’ a few weeks later. Again, we slid through ruins that stretched for miles. It was so quiet it was spooky. No plants or trees were to be seen. No birds or insects moved. The shores were lined with blackened ruins and melted rock. We had a little party the next day, because the last major city on the river, and hopefully the last nuclear target the invaders had hit, was now behind us. Because of the prevailing westerly winds in this part of the valley, we no longer had to worry about the unseen threat of radiation.
The population on the riverbanks began to thin out again, and we were alone for as much as two or three days at a time. We were too wary to let our guard down, but we began to hope for perhaps the first time that we could make it where we were going.
By now the river was an old companion. It was no longer a surprise when the clear water from a stream refused to mix with the muddy waters of the Xanadu, sometimes even for miles downstream. The way we could read a snag in a ripple in the water, the way we could guess at our best route by following the trend of our leadline readings, the way we could smell bad weather a day ahead of time: all this and more built our confidence. Ferguson was backing up on discipline a little, and we began to sing and play around in the warmer weather.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
. . . Well, we all learned a lesson about lax discipline. We clipped a rock the other day, and bent the hell out of the prop on the cruiser. We can still run it in a pinch, but the vibrations from extended running could blow the shaft seals, and then we’d really be in trouble. This will add weeks to our trip, just as we were coming to its end.
The trouble is I’m sick and tired of being the Old Man. I don’t want to keep cracking the whip, even though I have to. I just want to relax and go along with the crowd, and rest. . . .
I was on watch on a slow Sunday afternoon. It was holiday routine, and the church services which were our only planned activity on Sundays were long since over. The day was beautiful, a hot lazy brightday. Ferguson sat silently beside me on the cruiser’s bridge, staring into the distance. With the engines off and the raft drifting with the current, it was one of those watches where your hand wants to rest lightly on the wheel, and it’s hard to focus your attention, even though you know you have to.
“Why did you do this?” I asked suddenly.
Ferguson squinted at me under the brim of his cap. “Do what?”
“You know, help us out, come along. You were set up to do pretty good all by yourself.”
He was quiet for a few minutes. A terran eagle swooped down and pulled something long and slippery out of the river ahead of us. But before it could get too far, the thing looped itself around the wings of the eagle, and they both hit the water ass over teakettle. A few moments later the eagle struggled out of the water alone, and flew off sputtering.
We both chuckled for a moment. “Well?” I asked.
Ferguson grimaced. He wasn’t one to talk, but he also wasn’t one to try to weasel out of giving people an answer.
“All my life, I had the Navy. But it wasn’t just the Navy, it was the people. When they retired me, I didn’t know how to make ties to anybody, how to get along. Not without the Navy. But when the invaders came, I couldn’t stand the thought of dying alone. People are like playing cards. They can’t stand up by themselves, it only works if they lean on each other.”
I didn’t know what to say back to that, so we finished the watch together in silence.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
.. . Even with the engine casualty, we’re only a couple weeks out from our destination, which is giving us all a funny feeling. The journey has lasted so many months that the raft and river are our home now, and you can see everyone acting awkwardly as they realize that our lives will soon be changing. There is a feeling of relief, too. Being past the most thickly settled parts of the river, we are in much less danger from the people of the shores. And most important, we’re thousands of kilometers from the invader’s base at the head of the valley. It’s funny, but I’m almost sad the trip is over. Not that I’m glad all this has happened, but for the first time in my life, I am with a group of people who care about me, and I care about them. Even in the Navy, as much as I felt at home, there were still barriers: religion, language, customs. Here I can finally be myself, can be at peace. . .
I guess I’ll never figure out how Ferguson knew what was happening that night. He did have our night vision binoculars, so maybe he saw a glint in the moonlight. Or maybe heard a distant sound . . .
It was the middle of truenight with the musky smell of spring in the night air. Ferguson and I were out hunting, crouched in a makeshift blind by a game trail, waiting for something to blunder into us. We were silent and watchful, armed with two laser rifles we had found in a wrecked military aircraft a week before. The raft was moored in a creek about half a kilometer behind us.
Suddenly, Ferguson stopped sweeping with the binoculars. He flinched and hissed at me through clenched teeth.
“Jim, get out of the blind and into that stream behind us. Roll around in the water to reduce your infrared signature and then set up in as dense a cover you can find to fire in front of the blind. When the time comes to shoot, don’t hesitate or you’ll die.”
“Wha . . . wha?” I stammered. I had no idea what was going on.
He repeated his instructions. “Jim, we don’t have much time. Just do it,” he said, and gave me a crooked little smile, “and take care of yourself and the others.”
If I’d learned one thing during our journey, it was that when Ferguson told me to do something, I was best off doing it. So within half a minute I was soaking wet, huddled behind a bush, with my cheek against the stock of my laser. Before I had any time to wonder about what had spooked him, I saw a dim form moving down the path, gliding silently through the night. Suddenly, as if it could see, it turned and fired a laser into the blind. Ferguson’s own laser fired wildly toward the sky. I fired myself and my beam slashed across it. It spun and fired back even as its guts spewed out, and my shoulder exploded with pain. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. The forest was dead silent except for my panting. I walked over, giving the body another hosing with the laser as I moved forward. It was a man, but strange looking. I wondered if this was one of those Sauron supermen we’d heard rumors about from people we had passed on the river. His face bulged over the eyes, which glittered in the starlight. As I leaned over him, though, I realized that the bulge was some kind of night goggles. I pulled them off and saw what looked to be just an ordinary man. But he was also in a full combat uniform, carrying an advanced laser rifle, and the way he had moved indicated military training and experience. It seemed that we had ran into some sort of military scout, one who shot first and asked questions later.
I blinked back tears as I put the guy’s goggles on myself. The forest around me snapped into view, almost as clear as day. I didn’t see any other sign of movement, but my throat was dry and my heart beat fast. This was top of the line military equipment. If this was a lone scout we were all right. If not, we could all be dead in minutes. In any event, we had to get out of here and fast. I crouched and slung Ferguson over my shoulder. I couldn’t leave him out here, lonely in the dark.
When I got back, folks didn’t seem to believe what had happened. They were confused and began to argue with each other. The only thing anyone was doing that made any sense was binding the laser bum on my shoulder. I tried to get them to realize the danger we were in, but they just kept arguing about who should be doing what. Finally I’d had enough.
“Quiet!” I yelled. Surprisingly, they all hushed up and looked at me. Quite a different bunch than the ones that left on our journey so long ago. Gaunt and hard looking, but still not hard enough to cope with the loss of our leader. Suddenly I realized what Ferguson was getting at when he told me to take care of them. I remembered watching him during sleepless nights, the concern in his eyes when we faced a dangerous situation, the secret of our book and how little he really knew about the river, the way he agonized over each of us. The weight of those words fell around my shoulders like lead.
“He left me in charge,” I said, stretching the truth a little. “We’re facing what might be the worst situation we’ve faced yet, and we’ve got to face it ourselves. Now Freya, Nikko and Art, you get the lines ready to slip. Doc Lampson, I want you in the cruiser ready for a fast push. We might need those engines, vibrations and all. And the rest of you, break out our arms and get to your battle stations.”
They all began to bustle around purposefully. I backed up to lean heavily on the wall of the shack. I was exhausted, but I had to smile at the way they all were so willing to take orders from a skinny 17 year old. Suddenly I realized that Cindi, the little Slimak girl, was staring up at me. My smile disappeared.
“What’re you staring at?” I snapped, and pointed over toward the people handling the lines. “Get over there and get busy helping them.”
We never saw another thing that night, and other than a brush with some rabble who tried to collect a toll from us, and a few more of the tense moments we had whenever we passed other vessels on the river, we didn’t have any more trouble at all. We made it to the community where our sister church lay two weeks later. I led Mr. and Mrs. Liu, the only ones left who knew these people, up a dirt road from the river until we reached a large newly-built stockade. We hailed them and were able to come in, but under close guard. They were pretty surprised once they recognized who we were. Like we figured, they were not keen on bringing in new mouths to feed. But they considered our journey to be something of a miracle, and couldn’t bear the thought of turning us out after all we had done to get there. Between that, the Liu’s friendly nature, and the use of some of the “convincing skills” that Ferguson had taught me (a little bluster and a lot of bull), we soon found ourselves members of the Jacksonville Methodist Freehold and Commune. Our travels were finally over.
Epilogue
It’s a long way up the hill. At times the path is so steep, and the grass so slick, that the mule almost loses his footing, and I end up bracing my feet and hauling on the bridle to keep him moving. He struggles under the load that so many other people in the commune thought was a fool’s errand, the task that kept me busy through two winters. But I have someone to visit, and a debt to repay.
We climb through the long and sweaty afternoon, and at last reach the top. I pull the load off the mule’s back and drag it into place at the head of the grave. My job is done, my conscience is at ease, and I can go back home to Freya and the baby. I step back to look over my handiwork and read the inscription I carved into the stone:
Master Chief Boatswain
Timothy Ferguson,
Imperial Navy
Any man can make a rate,
but only God makes Boatswain’s Mates.
It was one of his favorite expressions. I hope that, wherever he is, he sees it and it brings him a smile.
Deathmaster Quilland allowed himself the brief luxury of a sigh while he indulged in an even more uncommon Sauron activity: reverie. Looking out his casemated lancet window, he leaned his chin on his palm and considered the trickle of distant, milling specks that moved through the pass beneath the Citadel. That traffic was the end-product of the new Sauron reality: an endless round of tribute patrols, Havener guerrilla retributions, responsorial pacification campaigns, and then a brief period of uncertain calm--before the whole cycle began once again.
Quilland shook his head, returned to the hardcopy dossier in front of him, scowling at the coarse sheets upon which it was printed. Hardcopy instead of heads-up displays or, at the very least, computer screens: that he had lived to see it all come to this was unthinkable--which was why Deathmaster Quilland tended to repress every faint tinge of reverie that threatened to intrude upon his thoughts. But on some days, the recollection of things past was too strong to be fully dismissed. And the dossier in front of him was not helping matters.
Senior Assault Leader Ashcroft’s young, promising life was summarized in the statistics that reeled out in seemingly inexhaustible streams upon the papers before Quilland. Written commendations supported the conclusion implied by the young Soldier’s service record and test results; he was upward bound into the command ranks. One of the Race’s brightest progeny, he was a bold young challenger ready to meet the heartless universe on its own terms--but with only Haven and its insufferable cattle as the whetstone upon which to test the sharpness of his nascent skills. Quilland shook his head again and closed the dossier with a careless sweep of his hand. A Soldier such as Ashcroft--the youngest officer on the Fomoria when it had jumped into the Byers’ System--should have been able to look forward to a life of bright opportunities and demanding challenges. But here on Haven--
A set of hard knuckles rapped three times against the 10-centimeter timbers of Quilland’s door. The Deathmaster pushed the dossier aside, straightened, and resisted one last urge to sigh. “Come in.”
The door swung open swiftly, easily, belying its impressive mass--which Quilland knew to be in excess of two hundred kilos. Ashcroft--fair of skin and hair--entered with three long, sweeping steps that simultaneously suggested the grace of a dancer and the lethality of a martial artist. “Senior Assault Leader Ashcroft reporting as ordered, Deathmaster Quilland.”
Quilland nodded. “Be seated.”
Ashcroft curtly nodded his acquiescence and thanks and slid into the severely-constructed straight-backed chair that faced the Deathmaster’s desk. Quilland noted the fluidity of the Soldier’s motion, thought, He’s aware of his skills--enough to be proud and appreciative of them, but not enough to be cocky. Once, years ago, had we had another battalion of lads like him, we could have held that beachhead on--but that was history now, events and memories as dead as the comrades left in the brambles of that long-forgotten landing zone on a long-forsaken world that was untold parsecs and years distant.
“Deathmaster Quilland?”
Quilland started, found that he had been staring straight into Ashcroft’s almost achromatic grey eyes. “Yes?”
“Are you--quite well, Deathmaster?”
Quilland brushed past the inquiry. “Senior Assault Leader, you are to report to your century’s quartermaster for equipment assignment. You will complete requisitions for two platoons worth of materiel--D-grade equippage.”
Ashcroft’s brow rose and then fell. “An independent command--with D-grade outfitting?”
Quilland refused to show his sympathy. “Your question suggests that either your hearing is impair
ed or that you are disposed to questioning orders, Senior Assault Leader.”
Ashcroft straightened. “Neither, Deathmaster. I was simply--surprised.”
And with good reason; a young turk with your potential has every reason to expect a reasonably equipped unit for his first command. But this is Haven, and First Citizen Diettinger has other plans for you, I’m afraid. Quilland’s voice and eyes retained their tenor of indifference. “You will be collecting your unit in ten hours. You will have two T-days to prepare your troopers for your mission. You are advised to spend at least one day going through full-unit drills.”
“May I inquire why, Deathmaster?”
It gets worse, my poor, proud eaglet. “Your unit has not worked together prior to this assignment, Senior Assault Leader. The sixty-eight troopers have only been reorganized into a field-duty unit within the past week.”
Ashcroft looked genuinely baffled. “I don’t understand, Deathmaster.”
“Your unit is comprised of--Quilland almost winced as the euphemism prepared to pass his lips--” ‘reassigned personnel.’ “ Meaning you’re getting the dregs from the bottom of the Sauron barrel, Ashcroft. Genetic preference ratings of D-3 and less, fertility ratings of seven and worse, lower bell-curve performance in terms of strength, dexterity, intellect, creativity. All the troopers of your command were once functionary types with marginal roles, such as clerks, data processors, and even maintenance assistants for now-extinct technologies: all roles that no longer exist. Of course, they are still Saurons for all of that, but--
War World IV: Invasion Page 16