The Beginning of Sorrows

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Sure, sure,” he grunted. “Just a misstep.”

  He rose, dusted himself off, then the two started walking in step again. At least Con had come out of his semi-catatonic state. His eyes were focused, and he began to look around at the landscape in an assessing way.

  Lightly Colonel Ben-ammi said, “I was wondering how long we would march today. How far is it to Donkey’s End?”

  “Uh—I’m not sure,” Con hesitantly replied. He seemed a bit surprised that he didn’t know.

  But Darkon Ben-ammi wasn’t surprised at all. In the aftermath of the massacre at Fort Carson, the team had just walked off the base. All of them, except Darkon, had seemed stunned, as if they had concussions. It was just a sort of autopilot, Darkon was certain, that had made Con walk out in the same direction they had started on that long-ago morning—southwest, toward the small box canyon where the burros roamed.

  Darkon had given it almost the entire day, judging whether Con Slaughter was going to recover and take command again. As evening crept up on them, Darkon could see that Con was still unable to come out of his darkness, so Darkon had decided to try to help him along a bit. As it turned out, it didn’t take much. Con Slaughter was a natural leader of men, and this deep instinct was bound to come alive in him. Darkon—the entire fire team—just really needed it to be sooner rather than later.

  “Hold up, people,” Con suddenly ordered. The straggling team’s footsteps eventually lagged to a stop. “Sergeant Valdosta and Lieutenant Fong, scout around over there in that stand of rocks and see if there’s a good place to camp. Darmstedt, Colonel Nicanor, you check over to the east. Looks like a loss, but there may be a sheltering ravine or gully.”

  Valdosta and Fong took off immediately, but Ric Darmstedt blinked a few times. Vashti touched his arm. “Come, Lieutenant, I’ll take point.”

  “Sure, ma’am,” he said blankly, following her obediently.

  “Mitchell, where are we?” Con demanded.

  David looked bemused. “I—I’m not sure, sir. I haven’t been— uh—”

  “Neither have I, and neither has anyone else, except the colonel here,” Con said brusquely. “So get on it. I want a spot on the map. How much time do you need?”

  David straightened, and like the others, his eyes seemed to come alive. Searching around, he answered, “I need some height, I need the 40K night binocs. Give me half an hour, sir.”

  “Fine. Go climb a tree or run up a hill or something. Be back in thirty.”

  “Yes, sir.” David hurried off to the east after Valdosta and Fong.

  Con Slaughter turned to Colonel Darkon, his face careworn and old-looking. “Sir, I’m the captain of this team, and I appreciate you and Colonel Nicanor putting yourself under my authority since you’ve joined up with us. But right now, I’d sure like the advice of a superior officer—and a more experienced soldier and wiser man than I am.”

  Politely Colonel Darkon replied, “I don’t know how qualified I am, Captain, but I’m at your service.”

  Con looked off into the distance, after his team. “What the devil do I do now?” he muttered.

  Colonel Ben-ammi eased the pack from his shoulders and rubbed his right shoulder contemplatively. Con Slaughter waited, his tawny brown eyes troubled and murky. Finally Ben-ammi said rather coolly, “I may outrank you, Captain Slaughter, but I have no training in commanding a small combat unit. That is why I am here, to learn—from you. You are the leader of this so-elite and highly trained team.”

  “That doesn’t help me much, sir,” Con observed darkly.

  “No? The only other information I can give you, Captain Slaughter, is what I would do if this were a flight team downed in hostile territory.”

  Wearily Con asked, “And what would you do, sir?”

  Heavily intent, Darkon replied, “I would order them to hide, and wait. Wait for some real soldiers—someone like Fire Team Eclipse—to come rescue them.”

  Con’s careworn face blanched, and he seemed momentarily stunned. After long moments his lips set in a tight line, but all he said was, “Thank you, Colonel, for the advice.”

  They camped underneath a brooding pinnacle of red sandstone, huddling close together in their sleeping bags. It was bitterly cold, and the air was so dry that their lips were already beginning to crack. When David Mitchell realized this, he sternly made everyone apply lip balm. That was the sum total of the activity, and the conversation, of the night.

  None of them thought they would sleep, but the first indication that they were real soldiers was that they fell asleep instantly. Men of war did that. Sleep was a healer, and sleep was precious. Time for sleep was never squandered.

  In the first bare gray of dawn, Con Slaughter was surprised to awaken refreshed, alert, and with a clear mind. He woke up first, and he kindled the dead fire and started the coffee and even boiled a separate pot of water for tea for the Israelis. No one else stirred.

  The high plains mornings were so crisp, so stringent, that it stirred a man’s soul and strengthened his will. These men are my responsibility, and that is the saving of me . . . , he reflected with uncharacteristic self-analysis. Otherwise, I’d be lost, tearing at my hair and howling at the moon. But I have a duty, I have responsibilities, I have obligations, and no one—not even Colonel Ben-ammi—can or should take them from me.

  So that’s my mission . . . to lead them.

  So what’s my crisis? he thought with sudden invigoration. I have a mission, I have a plan, I have the best team in the army . . .

  “Wake up, people!” he stood up and roared. “It’s a great morning to be alive!”

  He was impatient, and while they were still grumbling and moaning, he began his work.

  “They’re dead,” he said flatly. “Never forget, but never let it devour you. No team of mine is going to grow weaker because of the deaths of honorable comrades in arms. This will—it has to— make us stronger.

  “We’re Fire Team Eclipse. We are soldiers, we are professionals.

  No more stumbling around like brainless civvies. We’re lying low here for the day, then we resume night marches. We’ve got a mission, and a plan, and it’s time to get back to work.

  “We’re going to hunt for food to save our MRE’s. We’re going to conserve our water because it’s been a dry summer and it looks like the winter’s gonna be the same. We’re gonna grab some pack animals and use ’em, but we’re not gonna bleat if they’re needed to carry water or wood while we’re still haulin’ our packs. We’re going on to that ranch for horses. Along the way we’re going to help out any civvies we can, any way we can. And sooner or later, we’ll fight, and we’ll never surrender. We fight—even if we’re the last!”

  David Mitchell, by some skill, some deep instinct, and some mystical gift, led them directly to the ranch. They’d found a gully about four miles from the ranch, and they’d parked there until dawn. Con had decided to reconnoiter the ranch in daytime, and not go crashing in like some SWAT team in the middle of the night, just in case there were only scared civvies there.

  From two miles out, David could see clearly across the flat waste of sand the big house and the outbuildings with the ART III power scope that was originally made for snipers’ rifles. Laser Imaging Targeting, however, had made all visible imagery technology obsolete, until the blackout, of course. David had had the foresight to scrounge around in the base supply warehouses and find all kinds of things that the army had no use for anymore but would never throw away.

  “No horses,” he reported to Con. The entire team was lying flat on their bellies on the last small rise before the startling green line of the ranch house grounds. Two miles back in the gully, their four burros chewed contentedly on some tumbleweeds that Ric Darmstedt had managed—rather comically—to capture. The burros were surprisingly amiable, David had said, and they ate anything and everything with relish. The worst trouble the sturdy little animals had given them was when one that David had named Cookie had almost eaten Captain Slaughter
’s right boot. The four burros even seemed to be growing attached to David and Ric.

  “One Vindicator, two Hummers,” David continued, peering intently through the contraption. “No sign of people outside, but there’s smoke coming from the chimney.”

  “Smell any Germans?” Con asked cautiously. They had seen no sign of Germans anywhere on the ground, only flyovers by a squadron of Tornadoes and the occasional helo or two. In fact, they’d only seen other humans once, in a ghost town named Canto. The people had run into the thick forest that hovered over the dusty little town when Con and Rio tried to approach them. Con, sighing, had let them go. No sense in running after them and really terrorizing them.

  “Not really, sir. I just don’t think it’s feasible,” David was finally answering thoughtfully. “Surely they’re sticking close to their bases. And this facility sure isn’t like a pleasure resort or something. I doubt if they’d take any notice of it.”

  Con took a few moments to consider, then he turned to his right-hand man. “Rio, you got a nose. What do you think?”

  Con had become skillful at honing in on each person’s unique capabilities and using them at every opportunity. This was one of the things that had saved the team in the last weeks. Rio Valdosta relished being called on by his captain, as did each member of the team. “Gimme that spyglass, Mitchell, let me take a look-see. You’re a pretty smart little puppy for liberating this jewel.”

  “Can the wise sage routine, Rio, you’re the same age as I am,” David scoffed.

  “Puppy bites,” Rio teased. He studied the ranch for a while. “The helo and Hummers have sand piled up on the north side. Must not be any commissars there . . . they wouldn’t stand for that, even if the blasted things don’t run. Corral’s broken down in two places.”

  He peered through the scope for a few more minutes, then said confidently, “Captain, I think we got some scared Green techies in that house. No way of knowing how many, but it wouldn’t matter if it was a hundred. They ain’t gonna give us no trouble. They’ll probably cry with joy all over their little green coveralls to see some people who have a clue.”

  Yeah, we do have a clue, Con thought with satisfaction. Standing up, he shouldered his pack. “Then let’s ride to the rescue. C’mon, slugs, daylight’s trekkin’.”

  A covert approach to the ranch, which was smack in the middle of a vast barren plain, was not impossible but probably would’ve taken the team a day and a night, crawling on their bellies. Con’s instincts told him that the risk wasn’t worth the effort, so they simply walked up to the front door. Con knocked politely. “Hello, the house! Anybody home?”

  The door was almost yanked off its hinges. In the doorway stood a man with thick unkempt hair and beard who looked as if he’d been wandering in the wasteland for years.

  “Soldiers?” he clamored. “People? Live, breathing, real people?” His crazed brown eyes suddenly grew wary. “You’re— you’re alive, aren’t you? You’re real . . . really . . .” His great meaty hand shook as he reached out and poked Con Slaughter’s chest.

  In his rough half-whisper, Con told him, “Mister, if you ever do that again I’m gonna put some more spaces in your teeth.”

  Niklas Kesteven’s muddied brown eyes widened. Then he threw back his shaggy head and roared with laughter. “He’s real! Never knew a Screaming Eagle that could stand being poked at! Glory be!” In the next moment, he threw his great gorilla arms around Con Slaughter, bulky pack and all.

  Though it was difficult for him, and Rio Valdosta never let him forget it, Con did manage to keep from making good his threat.

  They met Gildan Ives, who was like a thin wraith, only with cherry-colored hair. She cooked for them, and though it was pretty good food under the circumstances—salt-cured slabs of beef in a creamy sauce, Proto-Syn spaghetti and meatballs, a big stew of vegetables— the team was rather surprised that it all tasted offensively plasticine to them. Rio Valdosta had turned out to be an expert hunter, and they’d been eating well. They just hadn’t realized it until now.

  Dr. Niklas Kesteven talked incessantly, pacing the floor, fiddling with the food, ordering Gildan around. “Sure, this is a Shortgrass Steppe Biome facility. Who else would be stuck out in the back end of nowhere like this?” He was nervous, ducking his head and refusing to look them in the eye.

  Con had a feeling, an itch, that something was wrong; not something dangerous, not something deadly, just that there was something else he needed to know about this place. Something that Niklas Kesteven really didn’t want him to know. He just couldn’t figure out how to find out what “it” was.

  “You two have had a hard time of it, all by yourselves?” Colonel Darkon Ben-ammi asked kindly.

  “Uh—we—that is, yeah, it’s been hard,” Niklas stuttered. They were in the enormous kitchen, seated at a rough oak table that must have weighed four hundred pounds. The fireplace was right by the table, and Gildan was kneeling close, tending to the pots that hung on clever swing-out hooks. She made an odd little gulping sound, then clamped her mouth shut.

  “We—that is, we’re short on water,” Niklas blathered on. “That’s why we’ve got to move on now, Captain Slaughter. No use staying here. No water.”

  “No water?” Colonel Ben-ammi repeated with great surprise. “But surely you have a well? Surely the commissary didn’t haul water to this facility!”

  “No. I mean yes. It’s dried up, though,” Niklas answered vaguely. “Gildan, you have any more of that beef stroganoff? The colonel here needs some more.”

  “No, no thank you, I’m quite full,” Vashti said hastily. “It’s very good, but I’ve had more than enough. In fact, if you will all excuse me, I believe I’ll take a short walk. I’ve overeaten, and I’ll grow sleepy if I don’t walk some of it off.” Without waiting, she hurried out.

  Niklas looked after her, chagrined. But there was nothing he could do, short of tackling her or shooting her. “Uh—so. We need some help, Captain Slaughter. We can’t stay here. Not another night, not one more night!”

  Slaughter and his team exchanged wary glances. Something was definitely wrong with this man. And the woman—she looked as though if anyone touched her she’d shoot straight into the stratosphere.

  Slaughter nodded, but he managed to signal Ben-ammi to keep the man talking. Colonel Ben-ammi knew how to make people tell things. Con Slaughter knew some ways to get people to talk, but such methods weren’t quite appropriate to use on this poor half-demented big-brain. Being that smart always makes you nutty, Con reflected, not without some pity. And being scared makes it worse.

  Colonel Ben-ammi turned on his buttery teddy-bear act full blast. He began telling Niklas all about how he looked too fatigued to embark on a difficult march to anywhere, he must be exhausted, such a strain for such a keen and highly intelligent man, blah, blah, blah . . .

  And he was oh-so-solicitous of Gildan, who practically dissolved in front of their eyes. After being slathered with this warm oil for a few minutes, both Niklas and Gildan were lulled into an almost hypnotic state.

  Finally Vashti came back in. She stood by the table, hands on her hips, and addressed Con Slaughter in a slow, methodical voice. “Captain Slaughter, there are two Humvees here, and a Vindicator. Where is the pilot? And please—a Humvee apiece for these two? Even the MAB directors don’t get personal Humvees. Also, there are three corrals, two barns—one that has two enormous tractors stored, and much other machinery—and there are four other out-buildings. I looked in one, and it appears to be some sort of medical facility, only a little cruder than normal. Probably a veterinary clinic. A big one. What I am saying, Captain, is that this facility is much too well-equipped and complex for just two people.”

  Gildan, who had sat down in a chair close to Darkon Ben-ammi, was staring vacantly into space. When she spoke, it was as if she were reading off a Cy-prompter. “I told you I’m a veterinarian. That’s what we do here. Care for the wildlife in the biome. I let them all go, you see . . . all the an
imals. Except the horses.”

  Con turned to Niklas Kesteven, who had finally sat down and buried his face in his hands. “Sir, where is the pilot of the helo? And I know that all MAB facilities are equipped with commissar security details. Where are they?”

  “There—were two . . . men. They started fighting over Gildan. I couldn’t let them—hurt her . . . I took their guns. But I didn’t kill them. I just threatened to. They-–they ran out. I didn’t even think about the horses. They took two of them, and let the rest of them go.” Niklas’s normally booming voice was hollow and weak.

  Con listened and decided he was telling the truth—just not all of it. “Tell me everything, Dr. Kesteven, or I’m not going to help you.”

  “It’s—it’s got to be a lab, sir,” David said suddenly. “A secret lab. Biochem weapons research. The ground, the layout—it’s like it was laid down over—”

  Ric Darmstedt, who said very little these days, suddenly jumped up. “Not underground. No, man, don’t tell me that—”

  Niklas looked up and his face had deep crevices and lines, his eyes were as dull as if he were unconscious. “You can’t help them. No one can. I couldn’t. I tried, I really did . . . It’s too late. I was too late . . .”

  “Spread out, find the elevator,” Con ordered. The team jumped and ran. Rio Valdosta called out, “Here, sir!”

  The team saw the splintered pile of paneling shards, the broken ax . . . the thick daubs of blood from Niklas’s fingernails scratching on six inches of titanium-fortified steel.

  “They died,” he whispered raggedly. “They’ve been dead for weeks. I know that. But I still hear them . . . at night . . . every night . . .”

  Con Slaughter looked at the door, looked around at the horrified faces of his team. “Stay frosty, people,” he said in a clipped tone. “We got work to do. Get these two people packed and loaded up. Liberate anything we need. We’re moving out.”

  Vashti Nicanor, whose rich, olive-colored skin was now a sickly jaundiced yellow, pleaded, “When, Captain?”