“Little John Hordle. He is sort of impressive.”
“That was how the Third got here. Some of the rest came in just lately, from the Tenth and Fifth and some cavalry pukes, but a lot of those were wounded, and they were all captured in the usual way.”
Fred nodded. “Have you men been treated all right?” he asked.
The noncom shrugged, looking a little less nervous; he was a snub-nosed young man about Fred’s own age, with close-cropped blond hair and a healing scar across the side of his face.
“Yessir,” he said. “It’s not a beer-bash being a prisoner, but we got good medical care and plenty of plain food. Better than field rations, a bit. Work details for the enlisted men but nothing too hard and no direct help to the enemy war effort, farm work and lumberjacking mainly, just about enough to earn our keep.”
There were nods from many at that. The majority were from farm families themselves, doing their compulsory three years of military service, which became for the duration in time of war. They knew that food might grow on trees, but that it didn’t prune or water or pick or pack itself, and they’d all been doing hard work since they were old enough to scare birds out of a grain field or carry water to their parents during harvest.
“The guards haven’t been rough on anyone who didn’t try to escape, either; some’ve made breaks for it and they got shot or mauled by those fucking dogs when they were chased down and recaptured, but that’s by the book if you take a chance on it. Mostly it’s just sort of boring. We play a lot of baseball and football and that thing the Mackenzies play, hurley they call it in English, sometimes our team against the guards. They’ll even let parties go hunting, if we give our word to come back by sundown, and we get to keep the meat.”
“Nobody did that and then ran?”
“Nossir. We, ummm, sort of made sure of that. A promise is a promise and anyway it would screw things up for everybody. Someone wants to try to escape, fine, but no breaking the rules.”
“Good to hear it,” Fred said sincerely, and asked no more; there were times when an officer was well-advised not to pry. “OK, you’re off the hot spot, Sergeant.”
Rudi had told him that his mother had strongly suggested that the Boise prisoners be kept in the Clan’s territories. There were fewer grudges, and Mackenzies were simply less likely to do harm than some of the rougher barons up in the PPA lands. His eyes went along the line of faces, some angry, a few smiling, more wary and neutral. They all knew who he was; most of the ones who hadn’t met him would have seen him at a distance at one time or another. The US of Boise was a very big country, over a million people and that outnumbered even the PPA, but he’d still gotten around. For that matter, he took after his father though he wasn’t as dark, and people who were visibly of part-African descent weren’t all that common in what had once been Idaho.
He stood at what wasn’t quite parade rest and went on: “All right, I’m not a damned fool. There’s only one real question: that’s who killed my father. Killed the President. My brother Martin says it was me. I say it’s him; and I saw it. OK, what about proof? I can’t give you any. The nitty-gritty is that you’re going to have to decide who you believe. But here’s a couple of things to think over.”
He squared his shoulders. “Martin wanted to be President. That was something everyone knew. And now he’s running things back home. Dad was getting ready to call elections, and since then… well, Martin says he may regularize things when the emergency’s over. Want to bet that’s going to be about the Fourth of Never?”
There were some nods at that, but it wasn’t all that important to these men. They were all Changelings. They could read and write, his father had been insistent on keeping the schools going even in the terrible early years, but the old world wasn’t really real to them. Few of them had the visceral commitment to the old ways his father had had; he didn’t himself, though he was closer to it. They’d grown up in a benevolent despotism, thinking of General Thurston as the one who’d saved their families’ lives, the stern wise father figure who brought order out of chaos and let every man reap what he sowed. And not least, the one who’d put down the pretensions of budding land-rich would-be patricians.
Not that Dad wanted to be a despot. But at first it was just a struggle for survival and doing what he had to do day by day, and then he thought he could put enough of the country back together first so he could have real elections that would give him legitimacy as something more than a local warlord, and it turned out to be a lot tougher proposition than he thought. By the time he admitted that, a lot of water had gone under the bridge; Dad was stubborn as a granite butte. Martin could probably have won real elections if he’d been old enough to be a candidate under the old system, but he didn’t want that anyway. He wanted to be Emperor or something like it, and hand it down to his son. And that was before he started getting involved with the CUT.
“OK, Martin’s behind this alliance with the Church Universal and Triumphant. Does anyone here like the idea of that? Those people have slaves, and they don’t even bother calling them Registered and assigned Refugees like Pendleton… which Martin also allied us with. Dad declared war on the CUT when they trashed New Deseret and he fought his last battle against them at Wendell. Fought them and beat them, I was there. Now they’re supposed to be allies working for national reunification alongside the United States. Does anyone here really believe that? Is there one single man here who’ll get up and say it with a straight face?”
This time the silence was deeper.
Fred went on: “Dad broke up some of the big ranches so guys like you could have their own farms after the Change.”
A youngish ranker spoke: “Seems like the Mackenzies did that too.”
Fred nodded. I wish I’d thought of making that comparison, but these men have been around the Clan longer than I have. The Clan at home earning a living, that is, and not just Rudi and Edain traveling through the wilds.
“Yes, they did.”
“They’re pretty good folks,” another said judiciously. “They remind me of my neighbors back home-except they’re so fucking weird, sorry, sir, but they are, and I don’t mean just that Juniper Lady who is deeply scary weird. They’re all weird, putting out milk for the fairies at the bottom of the garden and stuff and talking to trees and animals and going dancing through the woods buck-naked with antlers on their heads and I don’t know what else. But pretty damn friendly to us, considering everything, though.”
“Some of the girls are real friendly sometimes,” a man said dreamily, and that brought a general laugh.
“Right,” Fred agreed. “But back home, instead of keeping public land in reserve for new farms, Martin is handing out vacant tracts in great big chunks to his cronies and supporters. Not just grazing land like Dad let the ranchers keep, but good land that could support dozens of families. Your families, someday, if you’re not in line to inherit a farm from your parents.”
“Cronies and supporters like Hardass Hargood’s family,” someone muttered. “I actually heard the son of a bitch say they deserved it because of all they sacrificed to serve the Republic, like I’m here ’cause it’s so much fun? What the fuck are we, leftover mutton hash?”
He subsided at an elbow in his ribs, but there were nods at that too.
Fred struck the argument home: “And he’s assigning the Deseret refugees to work it for them. Temporarily… until the Fifth of Never, right? And there are these new laws about what women can do-that’s CUT stuff, and no mistake. He’s not using them, they’re using him. Right, now put all that together, and who is it who’s really likely to have killed Dad… the General?”
Another silence, deep and prolonged; men were exchanging looks, squads unconsciously drawing together. Squad deep was Boise slang for people you can trust. Another man spoke:
“Right, sir, what do you want?”
“I think I’d make a good President,” Fred said.
I really think I would. And I know for a fact tha
t Virginia would dance on my face in her cowboy boots if I said otherwise. But I think I would… Dad was a great man but his head was stuck in the old world. This one’s a different place. Without the machinery, the people are different, and that’s not counting stuff like the CUT and the Sword of the Lady.
“But I’m not going to just take it. If we-Montival-win this war, I promise here and now, and I’ll repeat it whenever anyone asks, that there will be real elections within six months. Not ‘if circumstances permit’ or ‘when the emergency is over’ because circumstances are never right and life is one fucking emergency after another. Six months, come flood, war or forest fire. And everyone can pick whoever the hell they please, every four or six years or whatever we decide. If it’s me, fine. And we can work out a real constitution, because the old one wasn’t made with this world in mind and most of the old States don’t exist anymore. Folks changed when the world Changed, too.”
“And if they tell you and your new friends to take a hike?”
Fred smiled grimly. “If the people-which includes women and refugees-want someone else, well, Hell, I can live with it. I won’t starve and I’m not afraid of working for a living, and neither is my wife… this is her, Virginia Thurston, by the way. She comes from southeast of us, east of the Rockies on the High Plains. The CUT ran her out of her home; they’re doing their job there too, and their job is being evil sons of bitches.”
Rudi cut in: “And sure, I’ll give Fred a job like that if you don’t want him.” He snapped his fingers. “There aren’t so many good men who are true to their word about that I’d want to waste one. Carry on; just making that clear.”
The speaker nodded at him and turned back to Fred: “But you want us to be part of a kingdom?”
Fred nodded crisply in turn. “Yes. The High Kingdom of Montival. My Dad wanted to put America back together. He was a great man, he made a country out of chaos and plague and people terrified they were going to die. A lot of you wouldn’t be here today if he hadn’t been that sort of man. Hell, I wouldn’t. He went back into Seattle to get my mom out when he came back from the scouting mission to Idaho and found things had gone to shit. But by the end of his life, he hadn’t even put all of Idaho back together. Part of Idaho, and a few chunks of what used to be Washington State and Nevada. He didn’t want to make war on ordinary people to do it, either. I know Rudi Mackenzie… High King Artos, the redhead on the horse over there. We went all the way to the Atlantic together. Some real strange shit came down.”
“ Tell us!” someone said. “The way that witch… she’s his mom, right? The way she put us all to sleep… and held off that Seeker asshole…”
“It’s a new world. The rules changed at the Change. But the High King can do some of what Dad wanted done-put a big chunk of the country back together. In a different way, sure. But it’s one that a whole lot of people have already agreed to. So the names are different, big fat fucking hairy deal. It’ll mean no more wars among ourselves, no more marching around and burning farms and getting your head knocked in because… someone… wants to be first in line at the Parade of the Assholes. He’s promised, and I believe it, that we’ll be able to run our own affairs the way we please. We’ll have our own laws, and our own army to back it up. All we have to do is admit that everyone else gets the same privilege, and if they want to dance naked in the woods with antlers on their heads”-there was a general laugh at that-“that’s between them and the mosquitoes. We’ll put joining the High Kingdom to a vote too. I’m for it.”
“I’m for getting back home, Goddammit,” someone called. “I want to get back to my girl and the farm and anyone else can call themselves kings or barons or Chiefs or bossmen or the fucking Wizard of Oz as far as I’m concerned. They leave me alone, I’ll leave them alone.”
“Right,” Fred said, nodding vigorously at the roar of assent. “Are there any crazy bastards here who want a war? We’re all soldiers. We know what fighting really means. Sometimes you have to do it, but that doesn’t mean anyone who doesn’t have his head up his ass goes looking for one. Not just because it sucks for us, but because of the risks to everyone else back home too. Martin’s not only got us into a war here , he’s got the Dominions and the Midwesterners into the fight. The Canuks and the Iowans and their friends are marching right now. Marching towards our homes while we’re dicking around on other people’s ground.”
“Is that really true? And do they mean it?” a soldier asked anxiously.
“People, believe it. Do you think all these Mackenzies could get together and put a story over on you?”
“Hell, no,” the sergeant said thoughtfully. “A lot of the time they can’t agree on the time of day. They argue for the fun of it, like it was a poker game. Sometimes they argue and then switch sides and argue the other way’round just for something to do. Someone would have talked to us. It’s true, or at least they all believe it is, and they’re not stupid.”
“Right. I saw the Midwesterners forming up outside Des Moines with my own eyes, and people, there are a hell of a lot of them and they’re not stopping for shit. The CUT killed their Bossman and tried to kill his whole family; his widow’s running the show there now and she’s out for blood, and the rest of them are baying on that track like hounds after a cougar.”
“ We didn’t kill her man,” someone pointed out.
“Sure, the Prophet’s boys are first on the menu… but they and Martin are joined at the hip. He’s already pulled troops out of this theatre to go east, you must have heard about that before you got captured. Are you all that hot and bothered to go get killed to defend Corwin? Or seeing your neighbors and cousins marched off to do it?”
A brabble started to break out, and Fred held up a hand. “I’m not telling you to make up your minds right away. Go think it over. Anyone who wants to come with me… that’ll be a hard row to hoe. It’ll be dangerous and in more ways than one. You can stay here and be safe and get three squares and a place to flop whatever happens and whoever wins, if that’s what you want to do. Like I said, think it over. You’re free men; make your own decision.”
He stood, looking at them steadily. The gathering had turned from a drill-parade formation to a circle of interested men. Now it began to break up into groups arguing or talking, softly at first and then more loudly as they walked away. And some weren’t leaving, around a hundred.
Fred waited impassively until it was plain who was doing what. Sergeant Saunders, the man he’d talked to first, was the highest-ranking.
I’m not surprised. Martin’s made all the officers from company-grade up swear an oath to him personally. It’ll take something heavy to shift them. They’ve got more to lose, too; it would be easier to retaliate against their families than against a lot of anonymous rankers.
He looked at the sergeant and raised an eyebrow; that was a habit of his father’s he’d picked up.
“Sir, I don’t know about anyone else here, but I’m volunteering to follow you. I believe you and that makes Martin a murderer and a traitor who’s sold us to the CUT. Word about that’s been going round. .. and I don’t like the way a couple of people who got too loud about it disappeared, either. Shit, that’s a big fat fucking load of proof that it’s true right there. I want to be able to speak my mind without looking over my shoulder and wondering who I can trust! That’s no way for free men to live.”
“Good man,” Fred said, keeping the smile off his face; the last thing he needed was to look like a grinning kid.
Then he raised his voice a little more. “That what the rest of you think?”
Murmurs, and then a chorus of Yessirs.
“OK, think about this a little more, people. If Martin gets his hands on you, he’ll have you executed as traitors to him, sure as God, sure as fate. It’s win or die if you enlist with me. And I have the High King’s word he’ll try to avoid having us fighting our own people, use us against the CUT’s men… but there’s no guarantee there.”
Heads turned to Rudi; he
shrugged and turned both hands up. “I do promise I’ll try. I don’t give oath I’ll always succeed because I don’t promise what I know I can’t do. That comes back to bite you on the arse, sure and it does, and you end up paying when you can least afford it. As your commander here said, there are no guarantees in war. If you enlist with him, you enlist with me, and soldiers under my command do what they’re told whether they like it or not, and it will be not quite a lot of the time.”
Saunders laughed. “That sounds familiar, sir. I’m in. This needs doing. I don’t expect to like it. I don’t expect an egg in my beer.”
A few edged out from the back, but that left over ninety; about as many as had refused to even listen to him.
“Get the men organized by squads, Sergeant,” Fred said.
“They mostly are already, sir. I can shift the others ’round.”
“Do it. And collect any personal possessions from barracks right away. I don’t want a battle here. Oh, and one last thing. All of you remember, if you sign up, you don’t get to change your mind while this war’s on. Anyone who tries is a deserter and gets what deserters usually do. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“He can’t hear you!” Sergeant Saunders said.
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Get them moving, Sergeant.”
Several hours later the tents were going up much nearer Sutterdown. They were standard US (of Boise) issue; so was the hoop armor and curved oval shields with the thunderbolt and eagle, the short swords and daggers, the heavy throwing spears stacked while the men worked. It had all been captured with them, and there was more than enough. They’d even been able to match individuals to their own gear for the most part, though Boise soldiers were taught how to modify equipment to fit. Fred smiled as one of them patted the worn, sweat-stained bone hilt of a short stabbing sword in passing, like someone greeting a favorite hound. They hadn’t looked beatendown in the POW camp, but they were walking noticeably taller now, with no fence around them and weapons to hand.
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