Lines of Thunder: The First Days on the Front (Lines of Thunder Universe)

by Walter Blaire

  “You said the lieutenant pulled his map out,” Malley added. “That made him a prime target. Officers are the first to get plinked, so they need to hide who they are.”

  A boot further up turned to them. “Which there’s a lot of chatter here, and we haven’t re-assed the trench yet.”

  Dephic only laughed. “Hlallady, you think the monsters are following us, la?”

  “Like they suddenly turned clever?” Malley added scornfully. But the certainty was gone from his voice, and they fell quiet.

  As for Gole, as soon as the idea was proposed, he felt crosshairs on his back. He wormed through the dirt, witnessing himself from behind through Red Cap’s eyes, and his spine burned with anticipation. He knew the exact spot the bullet would hit…

  The trench opened under his hands and he fell over the parapet. He didn’t even try to catch himself. He landed on his side and folded open. Staring at a sky that seemed almost as dirty and corrupted as the trench itself, he tried to feel safe with the walls around him.

  A drumbeat resonated through the earth. A soft wallop, followed by more. An artillery barrage starting up. Strange that he felt it in the ground before hearing it in the air.

  “What happens next?” Gole asked when Malley dropped into the trench. Dephic and Grulle entered next. All of them landed more gracefully than Gole.

  “You mean for us? The platoon?” Malley scratched his chin. “Probably the South has an answer for the fingers we chopped off. We’ll repulse a small probe. A friendly exchange.”

  “Sounds relaxing.”

  Dephic turned alertly. “That was more sarcasm, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was,” Malley said. “Gole is a sarcastic little scrag.”

  “Lovely, just lovely.”

  Grulle caught Gole’s eyes and grinned. It was as if the blood-fed knew what Gole was thinking, and maybe he did. Blood-fed twins weren’t more stupid than their brothers, not really; it was nothing so simple. They merely lacked the persistence for continuous engagement with the world. Until the day a blood-fed bolted into true maturity, they lived small beads of life, each bead only tenuously connected to the last.

  “That’s what is next for you.” Gole said. “What’s next for me?”

  “Oh, you caught that?” Dephic shrugged. “They said you was too clever, no offense.”

  Malley patted Gole’s shoulder in an almost fatherly manner. “No doubt, you’ll be executed for disobeying orders, ye dumb scrag.”

  Gole bolted upright. “What? I obeyed my orders.”

  “There was lots of talk and not much shooting. I think that’ll be the topic.”

  “I shot at the dirt, the same as the rest of you.”

  “Probably a firing squad,” Dephic mused. He fixed Gole with a sudden intense look and said, “You will be executed and then fall to the ground. Was that sarcastic?”

  “No, Dephic,” Malley said. “Sarcasm would be more like, We will miss your contributions to the 51st.”

  “But we won’t?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  Gole swiveled between them. He hoped this was some of that famous trench humor. Cruel jokes for brutal soldiers fighting a savage war. It had to be that.

  8

  Corphy dropped into their midst from above. He landed lightly and snapped orders as more boots lowered the lieutenant into the trench. Elyseuran was white as new snow. They had tied his wounded leg to his sound leg, which was strange. Gole would have expected it to be left behind. The devastation of the lieutenant’s shoulder made that quarter of his torso gruesomely pliant. There was simply not enough bone structure left for the body to keep its shape in the coat. The arm would be a loss too. As for the lieutenant’s ruined stomach, it was now packed with the sergeant’s coat and held closed with two more belts. Thanks to the ancient twisting, the Tachba could recover quickly from the most terrible wounds. Even so, the lieutenant looked like a hopeless case.

  Corphy noticed Gole’s attention. “See what happens when a squeaker is permitted to create a distraction?”

  Gole opened his mouth to answer, but Corphy didn’t let him. With a full-bodied punch to the sternum, he sent Gole flying across the trench. As Gole landed on the ground, Grulle loomed behind the sergeant.

  “Stop,” Corphy snapped, not turning.

  Gulle’s trench knife hesitated against the base of Corphy’s skull.

  “Grulle, don’t,” Gole said, wheezing for breath.

  They waited while Grulle negotiated the issue with Pretty Polly. She would be confusing the blood-fed with two urges at once. The first, to protect his milk-fed brother and his valuable decision-making skills. The second, to obey authority.

  The outcome wasn’t in question. Grulle shared the basic, amiable disposition of most blood-fed, and he always shied from confrontation. His stop-training was also faultless. Grulle sheathed his knife and stepped back.

  “Scrag,” Corphy continued, staring at Gole, “when I talked about distraction I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to the others. You are past talking to. You are now the object lesson for all the other squeakers we’ve sucked into our ranks in the last few weeks. Much more of this and we’ll be half green, and I’m weary in my bones of explaining right discipline.”

  Corphy turned to the rest of the men in the trench. “Even worse, boots, is having to explain orders while under fire. That’s barbaric. We are soldiers of the Haphan Empire. We don’t question our officers, we follow orders or the very Empire falls. We follow orders, or this happens.”

  He nudged Elyseuran’s leg with his boot.

  The lieutenant winced and stirred. “So sarnt finally gets to make a new speech.” He managed to smile, though it was gruesome, his mouth lined with blood. “Boys, I don’t expect I’ll be back.”

  “Give you joy, sir,” Dephic said.

  “Eh? For what?” The lieutenant cracked an eye and frowned at him.

  “Which you’ll finally meet the ancestors face to face,” Dephic explained. “We’ll speak to you through the fire.”

  “Hold on, man,” the lieutenant shot back. “I don’t plan on dying! Don’t throw my corpse out of the trench just yet. Sergeant, don’t let Dephic be the one to check whether I’m dead.”

  The boots laughed. Even Corphy unclenched slightly.

  “And no, that wasn’t sarcasm, Dephic,” the lieutenant added, to more laughter. Then he shuddered with pain and drew serious. “I’ll give you a little dead-talking, though. Maybe…maybe listen like this is the last thing I’ll ever say. Keep your eyes open out there, boys. Something strange is happening in the South. Something odd is changing our special little war.”

  “What odd, sir?” Malley’s tone was uneasy.

  “If I knew, I’d dead-talk it at you, wouldn’t I, you blood-fed scrag?” The lieutenant softened it with a tight grin. “All I know is that it’s changing. The great snake of the front is shifting in its dreams. I am…I am Lieutenant Panthan Elyseuran. I am proud to have done service with all of you.”

  “Service,” the men murmured.

  Corphy nodded at the two boots who had lowered the lieutenant into the trench. “You’ll bring him back to the staging area.”

  “La, to hospital?” one asked doubtfully.

  “Hospital! Do you hate your lieutenant? No, we’re taking him directly to unit HQ. The lieutenant has always been too friendly by half, even with the Happies. Maybe he’ll reap some goodwill and get their good medicine.” Corphy shifted to Gole. “You’re coming with us. To ensure your obedience, your blood-fed will remain here with the unit. Make this clear to your idiot.”

  Gole clenched his jaw, turning to his brother. Grulle understood perfectly and looked stricken.

  Not enough time to think! This had gone off the rails so quickly. It was like when their brother had thought he could jump off the roof and land safely on a bed of rocks; Gole felt incredulity, anger, and sorrow all stirred together. It would be Corphy’s report against his, and escalated to the overlords’ attent
ion. Nothing good could possibly come of it.

  Indeed, there was a fair chance Gole would never return. He had no avenue he could see, no choice but to finally catch Gulle’s eyes. He said, “Stay here, my Best Little Bird.”

  Grulle wavered until Malley crossed to him and took his hand. The kindness in the gesture nearly broke Gole with shame.

  Corphy led the way through the trenches. The two boots carried the unconscious lieutenant by his good shoulder and his good leg. Gole followed behind.

  Pollution, come distract me, Gole thought. He cinched the strap of his rifle over his jacket so its tightness could damp the tightness in his chest. Pretty Polly, bump me with your hip.

  In a few minutes, Gole knew, his brother’s worry would unwrinkle. Gole wouldn’t disappear from his blood-fed’s mind; he would only be separate. Gole would exist in a different bubble from the present world—and if Grulle never saw Gole again, that bubble would never change. Gole would always be recent, always be on the verge of return.

  In a few minutes, too, the Pollution would separate Gole from his own concerns. He should relish his worry while it was still raw and austere, but he couldn’t. Real sorrow felt vile. He would miss the honest feeling when it was gone—but he wouldn’t wish it back.

  Because just imagine if his Pollution broke and every bleak feeling returned in a flood! Gole had grown up with five, then four, then two pairs of brothers. To him, they were all distinct faces and personalities. They were smiles and laughter and clever plans. They had all turned silent and transparent, converting to memory and mood, as their Pollution brought them to one ruin or another.

  If Gole was walking toward punishment…well, the punishment for misbehavior under fire was a summary execution. He didn’t disagree with it in concept. It was important to prune the over-polluted scrags before their aberrations triggered worse in other soldiers. If this was really happening, however, Gole was sad. He was supposed to have accomplished a little more with his life. He’d hoped for a little more than this.

  The change occurred.

  At its strongest, the Pollution was always Pretty Polly. She kissed his ear. She brushed her lips over his forehead and smiled. Her gaze was full of understanding. And as always, there were other shapes behind her, just out of focus. The ancient encoded memories, the ones that were the same for all Tachba men. The thoughts that couldn’t be explained with words.

  Gole’s concern lifted off his shoulders and sloughed into the air. Nauseating at first, then a relief. He let determination fill him. He felt a brisk confidence that he’d win through this next challenge. Anything that came up, he’d spot a way through it.

  He didn’t think about the falseness that cloaked the servitor controls. He leaned into them, letting them catch on the corners of his mind. In moments, the thoughts were indistinguishable from his own.

  Grulle would be okay.

  Corphy would see reason.

  Dephic would learn sarcasm.

  Gole would have a chance to kill that Southie in the red cap.

  9

  Their destination put the platoon’s forward trench to shame. The reserve trench was more like a city thoroughfare, with space for soldiers moving both directions and more to stand watch over the parapet. Even wheelbarrows of food and ammunition could pass side-by-side on the wide plank flooring. The sandbags looked stiff, new, and didn’t rain dust when Gole brushed against them. Corphy turned at last into an alcove that could nearly be called a patio.

  The walls were twelve feet tall, high enough to cast shade on the Haphan officers of the 51st Ville Emsa Fusiliers. Under a tight awning, tables and chairs filled the small space. Timber-braced doorways in every wall showed stairways leading to deep bunkers.

  The Haphans were gathered over a map on the table. Their clean gray uniforms made Gole conscious of his own grimy trench kit. Funny how that worked, as Gole had been self-conscious of its newness just hours earlier.

  One of the officers glanced up, then straightened.

  “Ah, Sergeant Caremsa?” The Haphan spoke in perfect, clipped Tachbavim. He came around the table, ignoring their salutes. Where the other Haphans seemed pinched and closed, this one’s face was more open and seemed to invite their gaze. Though his coat was buttoned to his throat even in the pervasive heat, he was the least fussy of the cluster, with scruffy cheeks and sweat-slicked hair. Gole studied his sash and deciphered that this was a colonel, possibly a lieutenant colonel. That would put him above the company’s Tachba low colonel.

  The Haphan noticed the body on the ground. “Oh dear, is that…”

  “Which it’s the lieutenant,” Corphy said. “Got a thump while on patrol. Didn’t need to, either. Could have been avoided.”

  “Panthan,” the colonel said. His tone was precisely that of a disappointed father. “Regrettable. He had such high function. So much promise.”

  “Which I failed to mention he’s not dead, sir,” Corphy added.

  “Of course he isn’t.” The colonel looked doubtful. “That leg.”

  “Still attached, sir. He still has most of his intestine.”

  “Then maybe there’s hope. Maybe he’ll be serviceable again.” The colonel glanced at a Tachba aide hovering in the corner. “Wick, grab some helpies and carry the lieutenant to the Haphan forward hospital. Tag him for the good medicine. Ah, on my family account, I suppose.”

  He turned back to Corphy, looking slightly miffed. “Panthan Elyseuran is too good to waste,” he said, as if to convince himself.

  “The men asked how long he might be on the mend, sir.”

  “For what I see? A year at least. Maybe he’ll take some training, keep his brain engaged. Officer school. If he doesn’t go mad, he’ll lead a company himself when he gets back.”

  “Emperor’s service!” Corphy exclaimed.

  “Yes, sergeant. Tell that to his men. Lieutenant Panthan Elyseuran will be made whole and raised to higher leadership. I will send the order myself, written down, in not five minute’s time.”

  One of the boots who had carried the lieutenant exclaimed, “Written!” Then, “Begging your pardon, very, sir.”

  “Given.” The colonel waved a hand. “A good officer has good men, they say. Of course you’re overwhelmed. You’re overflowing with gratitude for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Corphy said.

  The Haphan went still with thought. Gole admired how he did that. The other Haphans at the table were nearly motionless as well, only one of them drumming his fingers on the map as they whispered back and forth. Compared to the Haphans, the Tachba were twitchy bundles, never still: always a leg bouncing, a head rocking, a clenched and shaking hand that had to be hidden even when no one looked.

  “I suppose you’ll need promotion, Corphy,” the colonel finally said. Corphy twitched with tension.

  “Yes, there’s no helping it,” the colonel continued. “Corphor Caremsa: for your service to the Empire, I commission you into the Sesseran chivalry. You are promoted, sir, to half lieutenant.”

  Corphy nodded convulsively. The two soldiers behind him murmured, “Give you joy, sir.”

  “That’s a bump to half lieutenant, you hear?” The colonel tilted closer. “You’ll have the platoon for now but it’s not confirmed. We’ve been losing officers left and right, so you might get shuffled later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We don’t even have a Tacchie captain for the company right now! Your Colonel Goldros wants to fill the spots, but I’m tired of waiting. I’ll personally inform him about your promotion. Let him bitch at me directly if he doesn’t like it. I’m sure I’ll get an earful. If there’s ever a Tacchie who makes me nervous!” The colonel laughed, alone.

  “Thank you sir,” Corphy said. “Not a bump I expected, sir.”

  “Nonsense, you’re a, uh, feasible investment. Don’t let it ever be said that I’m generous. At least, don’t let it be said outside of my hearing.” The colonel paused again, but Corphy only nodded. “Well, that’s handled, then.”


  Corphy glanced up. “Which—”

  “I know, Corphor. This creature with the hangdog face.” The Haphan’s gray eyes flickered to Gole, then returned to Corphy. “What’s he done?”

  “Sir, which he argued over orders! On patrol, between the trenches, in the middle of a fire-fight. Which he drew the lieutenant into the argument, and caused the lieutenant to be killed! Nearly.”

  Gole flushed with anger, but the Haphan didn’t seem to notice.

  “He’s one of our raw recruits, then, lieutenant? A new scrag who doesn’t know anything?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m happy to agree with you, he is as dumb as a corpse,” Corphy said. Then he added, “Which he also violated a corpse!”

  The Haphans at the table coughed all at once.

  “Ye gods. When did this lascivious creature arrive on the front?”

  “This morning, sir.”

  “He has been busy, hasn’t he?” The colonel finally shifted to Gole. His face was exquisitely unreadable.

  “Yes, sir!” Corphy said. “This morning, when I were pushing the scrags into line, he kissed me one! Er, he struck me, sir.”

  Gole had been struggling to hold himself still and had managed to be as still as the Haphan, even through the mention of Yaelaphan’s corpse. At this last, however, he said, “That?”

  Corphy turned to him. Whatever deferential terror he felt when facing the Haphan colonel melted away when he faced Gole. “‘That’ what, scrag?”

  “That, sir?”

  The table coughed again, even louder.

  “Soldier,” the colonel said, addressing Gole. “Were you not advised against striking your superiors? I’m sure it’s in a manual somewhere.”

  To Gole, that sounded like permission to finally speak. “Yes sir. It’s in Section 3, Verse 10 of the Sesseran Military Code. I would never knowingly strike a superior, and I didn’t think I was striking one at the time.”