The colonel’s eyebrow arched. “So? You sometimes simply throw a punch and hope for the best? I’ve heard worse, actually.”
“It was about my blood-fed, sir,” Gole said. “As we marshaled for review, my brother Grulle was punched in the neck from behind and he fell at my feet. I simply knocked over the scrag who hit him.”
Corphy twitched like he was itching to hit someone again.
Well, Gole thought, it’s not like I can get into more trouble. He gave his tongue free license. “So you see, Colonel, nobody would have thought they were striking a superior. They would have thought they were only striking a coward who punches people from behind as they enter the trenches to serve the empire.”
The colonel’s eyes shifted between Gole and the new lieutenant. Corphy shook visibly. Gole’s blood hummed, too, with freshly recollected outrage. The Pollution wanted some salutary violence to result from this discussion. He kept himself as still as possible, repressing every tremor.
“I think the story begins to take shape,” the colonel said.
“If it please the colonel—” Corphy started.
“Lieutenant Caremsa,” the colonel said, then softened his tone. “Corphor, do you believe your leadership and your example can rehabilitate this soldier? Remember, I need every squeaker I have. A boot with a blood-fed he cares about is worth three singletons.”
Had the Haphan phrased it as an order, it would have been easier for Corphy to answer. As it was, the man had to think. He shivered, then said, “Of course, sir. I believe I can do something with this creature.”
“I have the highest confidence in you, lieutenant.” The colonel’s eyes were still on Gole. “I will heed your wise advice, then. There will be no summary execution for this new boot. Let’s see how he develops, shall we?”
“Thank you, sir,” Corphy grated.
“You, boy.” The colonel stepped close, and looked up into Gole’s face. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, sir,” Gole answered. “And a half.”
“Name?”
“Golephan Naremsa, of the House Naremsa.”
“House Naremsa, eh? An old house?”
“Since before paper and thought,” said Gole automatically.
“Since what?” The colonel’s voice turned sharp.
“Since before paper and thought,” Gole repeated, and finally realized his error.
‘Before paper and thought’ meant Gole’s family had been established before the Haphans conquered the province. Since before the Empire had colonized the planet, in fact. The Naremsa family had already been occupying its land when the Haphans issued the deed of ownership. The Overlords did not like their servitors to be aware of pre-landing history.
The colonel’s face nearly communicated something, and Gole stared at it, fascinated. He’d heard that Haphans lived far longer than the Tachba’s average forty years, sometimes past eighty or beyond. He had thought their impassivity might be the result of such terrible longevity. This Haphan was only middle-aged, however, in his early twenties but already inscrutable. It was something he’d learned—and something Gole could learn.
The colonel’s voice turned fractionally sharp. “Since before the empire invested this world, you mean. Since before we civilized your barbaric people, including this little kingdom of Sessera.”
“Perhaps,” Gole said, and inwardly cursed himself.
“Perhaps?” the colonel repeated.
“Yes, sir. You see, that was all before my time.”
The Haphan’s face didn’t change, nothing so vulgar. Yet Gole thought he saw amusement flicker in the Haphan’s eyes.
“Nicely put, Golephan Naremsa of the House Naremsa,” the colonel said. “I am Lord Count Seul Tan Luscetian, Lieutenant Colonel in the Haphan Imperial Expeditionary Land Forces. Acquaintance.”
Even Gole knew this one. He tipped forward from the hip. “Acquaintance.”
“Keep this one alive for me, lieutenant,” the colonel said, finally turning away. “I have every confidence, every confidence. Now I must see about getting some new scouts to your part of the line.”
10
Though he was now the most well-traveled replacement in the 51st, Gole still hadn’t learned the trench layout. When they brought the wounded lieutenant to Colonel Luscetian, Gole had been wrapped in his dire thoughts and staring at the ground. Now, returning to his platoon in the 51st, he struggled to keep up with Corphy.
The new-made lieutenant walked at a boil, snapping at anyone who strayed into his path. He never checked whether Gole was following, probably hoping Gole would go missing.
Since Corphy and the two soldiers kept disappearing around traverses ahead of him, Gole found his home trench nearly unassisted and navigating by instinct. He came upon it with surprise and relief. Grulle glanced up and nodded, as if he had merely returned from the latrine.
Malley sat with Grulle, and seemed to be asleep until he cracked an eye. “You missed dinner.”
“Of course I did.” Gole sagged against the sandbags and let gravity pull him to the ground. So long as there were no further surprises, this would be his first chance to rest since they’d embarked the trench train this morning. “Malley, how come I’m not dead?”
The old-timer shrugged. “I don’t know. Give it time?”
“I thought I was walking to my summary, and yet here I am.”
“Are you saying you didn’t get your summary?”
Again, Gole had the feeling of missing something crucial. When would these people start making sense? “We’re talking about summary execution, aren’t we?”
“Of course.” Malley thought a moment. “I understand. You’re wondering why, if you’ve been executed, you’re still walking around.”
Grulle went tense. “Ghost?”
“No, boy, not a ghost.” Malley leaned forward. “Now Gole, here’s the book on summary executions. The Happies don’t shoot their Tachba at the front because it would destroy the unit’s morale. Can you imagine if we were being shot at from both South and North? No. First you ‘get’ your summary, and when the unit is relieved, you’re ‘given’ your summary. That’s when you’re put against the wall. They laser you to pieces—and when it comes to your health, I’ve heard it’s conclusive. We’re due some rest leave soon.”
“In three or four days,” said the pile of sandbags Gole was sitting on.
Gole jumped, then moved to the side. Dephic again, nestled in the pile. “Dephic, how are you always underfoot?”
“Why do you never look where you sit?” Dephic shrugged. “Anyway, we go four weeks on, four days off, and we’ve now been front-lined for three-and-a-half weeks. Normally I can’t count the days, but I remember something the lieutenant said. He said the Fusiliers are fifteen percent understrength thanks to attrition. Fifteen percent! That has to be more than half of the unit, neh? The lieutenant said the percentage was, uh, untoward and unwonted. He were talking about how many of our asses have been plinked on our so-called quiet mile of front.”
Malley nodded. “Which that’s a high number, to be sure. But the lieutenant should not have mentioned the dead until we went on rest leave. Talking about our lost boots, it gets the eternal front thinking about you. What if it thinks you’re criticizing the war? The front won’t tolerate spiteful talk, it will sooner strike you down. I’d remind the lieutenant myself, except he’s poorly.”
“I didn’t receive a summary,” Gole finally blurted.
They were surprised. Even Grulle stared, if only because the others were already staring.
Gole continued, “The Haphan bumped Corphy to half lieutenant—”
“Not full lieutenant, eh? That will sting the little tyrant.”
“—And the Haphan colonel told him to rehabilitate me.”
“That sounds like a Haphan colonel, all right,” Dephic said. “They’re trying to conserve us, since we’re being spent so quickly.”
“What’s our Haphan like?” Malley asked.
Now Go
le was surprised. “You haven’t met him?”
“No-meh, scrag,” Malley snickered at the idea. “But then, I didn’t kill a lieutenant my first day in the trench.”
“For the last time, it wasn’t me that killed the lieutenant. And he’s not dead, anyway.”
“Ye jus’ winged him, neh?” Grulle shot him a wicked grin.
Gole said, “The lieutenant was sent to the Haphan hospital for the ‘good’ medicine. He’ll be patched up, they said, and sent to officer school.”
Malley and Dephic sighed with relief.
“Gole,” Grulle said softly, “I kept you a pocket of dinner.”
“Food?” Gole brought himself back. “Where is it?”
“Which I forgot, and ate it out of the same pocket.”
Gole laughed. “Thank you for the thought, brother.”
“You feel-better now, la?”
“Never better,” Gole said. “First, I wasn’t summarily executed. Now, a brief thought of food.”
“More sarcasm again, just lovely,” Dephic sighed. “That’s classic Gole.”
Malley shoved a heel of bread and a round stone into Gole’s hand. The stone turned out to be hard cheese, the kind that would soften in the mouth if it could be hammered into smaller pieces.
They fell into amiable silence to watch Gole eat. This was another manifestation of the Pollution, Gole knew, in all its unpredictable facets. We’ll share out even the smallest pleasures.
In the silence, they heard a watery sob.
It came from above them, by the lip of the trench.
Malley shook his head before Gole could be alarmed. “Which it’s just Yaelaphan, feeling gassy.”
Another gasp.
“Temperature changing, getting toward night,” Malley added. “Gives them indigestion in the gut.”
Gole took another bite of bread but had to stop again at a loud eruption of flatulence. Then, out the other side, a soft, wheezing moan.
“Which Yaellie could never shut up,” Malley said, in pure annoyance. He shouted to the top of the trench, “Which I thought we’d get some peace when you was plinked, ye scrag!”
“Shh, Malley.” Dephic snuggled deeper in his pile of empty sandbags. “He’s a good fellow. It’s nice to hear him again.”
Further from the trench, deeper in the dark, another bubbling gasp. Then, from even further away, another voice expelled a warbling sigh, saying something nearly intelligible. Sound at the edge of meaning.
They listened as the field of bodies outside the trench awoke.
“A proper friendly chat,” Dephic murmured.
“Words in the dark, la,” Grulle said.
III
Night Patrol
11
In which Gole Naremsa attempts to save his comrades.
Gole, Grulle, Malley, Dephic, and a soldier they’d met earlier, Hlallady, sheltered through the night. They slept in a knot of interleaved limbs, linked arms, and heads resting on gurgling stomachs. Once, Gole bolted from a dream where he was kicking through frictionless dirt, chased by an unknown terror. He found himself mired in the human raft. Snores in his ear, a boot heel in his crotch. He fell back to sleep, relieved.
Gole didn’t rouse the next morning, and nobody came to rouse him through the day. The sun was dipping again when the sound of activity brought him fully awake: a group of soldiers filtering into the trench to sit with them. Though they arrived at different times and hardly spoke, they seemed connected to each other. It wasn’t their trench kit or their faces but something in their methodical and watchful manner. These men weren’t as twitchy as the regular line soldiers. Gole’s guess was confirmed when a hard-faced Low Sergeant with a permanent frown squatted beside him.
“Golephan Naremsa,” he said.
“What do you want, sarnt?” Dephic snapped, with a coldness that was unlike him. Gole sat up.
The sergeant ignored Dephic. “Me’em Nadros Nophalemsa, your sergeant. You and your blood-fed are with me now.”
“But Gole’s a squeaker!” Dephic said.
“So is Grulle,” Gole said, annoyed. “Anyway, sarnt, I will give service.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Nadros looked him up and down. “Re-gear yourself and your blood-fed. No kit, no lug, and going over easy.”
“Yes, sir,” Gole said.
Behind Nadros, Malley shook his head.
The sergeant swung away, then turned back. “Listen, scrag, there’s no room for the Pollution on night patrol. No room for talk. Use your hand sign. If you can’t see a hand, you will do nothing. If we forget you, you will wait in the mud until the South finds you and kills you. Then when you’re dead, be a quiet corpse. If your corpse makes a sound before daylight, la, I’ll cut you open and shit in your stomach.”
“Someone finally shitting in Gole’s stomach?” Grulle asked.
Nadros jerked a thumb at the blood-fed. “Can you control this creature?”
“Yes, sir,” Gole signed.
“Don’t make me kill you,” the sergeant finished. He climbed out of his crouch and returned to his men, who still hadn’t said a word. They were shedding equipment in the trench.
Gole turned back to the others. “What’s going on?”
Malley shook his head again. “You’re a night fighter now, looks like. You do night patrols. Many chances for service.”
“I don’t understand,” Gole said. “Didn’t we patrol last night? What was that?”
“That was a patrol at night,” Dephic said. “Sergeant Nadros does night patrol. The first kind is a simple sweep. The second kind is where you’re looking for trouble. Actively hunting for monsters. Get the difference?”
“Many chances for service,” Malley said again, looking away.
Gole didn’t need any further explanation. The stock phrase among boots was: “Many chances for service, which must be passed up, it wouldn’t serve.” As bluntly as the Pollution would allow a subversive idea, he was being told to be careful with himself. On night patrol, apparently, there would be many chances to make a misstep and never return.
He glanced at Grulle, who was already dropping his extra gear. His twin fumbled over the clasp to his ammunition sack but got it to work. Gole caught the sack and fastened it again over his brother’s shoulder.
“You keep this one,” he murmured. “It has rifle food.”
Grulle grinned. “Whoops! Like sister taught-meh.”
“Nana loves you,” Gole added. He paused, surprised at himself.
“Me’em love the crazy little witch,” Grulle replied. He glanced around. “La, where is she?”
“Home,” Gole said. “Do you remember home?”
Grulle snorted at him.
“I guess Nana is teaching the next crop of boys now. Do you remember your little brothers?”
Grulle went thoughtful, by which Gole knew his blood-fed was now returning them to his mind. Gole didn’t want his brother to lose them, ever. “Do you remember growing up, Grulendon?”
“Ye scrag.” Grulle ruffled his hair fondly. “What for, remember-meh the days? I have you, little rock.”
Hlallady had seemed to be asleep, but now he kicked Gole’s boot, hard. “Damn your sister and damn your home, squeakers. No talk of that out here.”
“Listen to Hlallie,” Dephic said, shifting his eyes off the twins. “Pretty Polly don’t pick you up after thinking about home.”
Gole turned and unbuckled his own satchel, which he’d worn through the night without noticing as he slept like death. The others were right. The Pollution wouldn’t sweep away homesickness with all the other unproductive sentiments. How properly appalling that Gole could be more cheerful walking to a summary execution than remembering his childhood.
Sergeant Nadros’s squad mustered when the sky turned dark.
“What, no ladder?” Gole asked, and regretted it when the other boots snickered. Their faces were blacked, and their kit was grimy canvas with not a metal button or latch to reflect the moonlight. Indee
d, they were almost invisible already, just a few feet away. When they entered the airy darkness, they would disappear completely.
“No ladder, scrag,” said one of the men. “We levitate thiswise, like spirits.” He launched off the step-up and caught the parapet of the trench under his arm. For a moment he simply hung off the edge, staring into the dark.
“Helmet,” Nadros whispered.
The man passed his helmet back down. The rest of the squad placed theirs on the packs where they wouldn’t roll into each other. Though he’d only donned his helmet a moment earlier, Gole felt lightheaded and exposed when he took it off again.
“Naught seen,” came the whisper from above.
The rest of the squad soundlessly flung themselves up the trench wall, catching the parapet with elbows or knees. Gole could jump like that—all Tachba could—but only if he didn’t think about it too long first.
Grulle leapt for the wall. The sergeant snatched him out of the air and put him back on the ground. “You-practice that later, blood-fed, hear me?”
“Hear,” Grulle said.
Nadros cradled his hands and gave Grulle, and then Gole, a boost to the edge. They made it silently over the top and into the landscape.
Perhaps the sergeant had heard about Gole and Yaelaphan because they were a good ten yards away from the expressive corpse. Nadros tapped his shoulder, and he in turn tapped Gulle’s.
“Do I need to say it? Silence discipline.”
They nodded.
“You will follow the…” The sergeant trailed off, perplexed. The boots ahead of them were still nearby in the darkness. They had not moved forward.
“What, la?” Nadros hissed. He glanced at Gole. “The silence discipline is just for you two.”
The word was passed, man to man, back to the sergeant. “Which there’s fresh tape laid out. But it goes a different direction.”
The sergeant ruminated over this, which puzzled Gole. They were literally three feet from their home trench. What was there to think about already? And why were they so fixated on using tape?
Lines of Thunder: The First Days on the Front (Lines of Thunder Universe) Page 5