The Guns Above

by Robyn Bennis

  The man behind the desk handed the slip over, saying, “For you, Lord Hinkal.”

  Bernat noticed that no money came with it. Perhaps he had to pick it up at the semaphore office, which would be a dreadful inconvenience. He unfolded the message, which read:

  My Dearest Bernie,

  Visit your uncle Fieren in Arle and he will help you out. I’ll send him a message, telling him to anticipate you at the museum. Hope you are well.

  All my love,

  Mother

  “What a horrid day,” he said. But at least, at the end of it, he’d have money enough for wine and the card tables.

  Outside, he hailed a coach. It cost him most of his remaining money, but he felt it an acceptable outlay now that he had more on the way. After a short ride, he arrived and found that the Arle Museum of Art and Antiquities was free to enter, but only on three days per week. This was not one of them.

  By the time Bernat paid for his admission, his remaining wealth added up to little more than a rial. It would barely buy lunch at Oceane’s, let alone pay his bill at the hotel. These thoughts gained particular salience when he stepped into the museum’s grand hall and didn’t see his uncle anywhere.

  In desperation, he searched the galleries, and finally found a man in uniform. The uniformed man was sitting on a bench with his back to Bernat, but it was quite a fancy uniform, and the man was being attended by an aide-de-camp. Bernat approached from behind and asked, “Uncle Fieren, is that you?”

  Fieren did not turn. He sat, sipping a cup of tea and staring at a painting. “Bernie,” he said. “Come. Sit.”

  “I was worried when I didn’t see you in the hall.”

  “I prefer to take meetings in front of appropriately themed paintings,” Lord Fieren said, taking a sip of tea. “It’s a common habit among powerful men.”

  Bernat’s nose wrinkled as he examined the painting, which depicted a pack of hounds chasing after a fox. “But why this one?” he asked.

  Fieren’s mustache twitched. “Because I couldn’t find a painting of a wolf eating a clown,” he said.

  There followed an uncomfortable silence—uncomfortable for Bernat, at any rate—during which neither of them said a word. Bernat finally broke it with, “Are you allowed to have tea in here?”

  Lord Fieren took his eyes off the painting and stared hard at Bernat. “And who the hell would stop me?” He took another sip—a curiously dainty sip that kept his handlebar mustache clear of the liquid. That mustache was his Uncle Fieren’s pride and joy. For as long as Bernat could remember, his uncle had tended it like a gardener pruning a topiary.

  Bernat looked away, focusing on the painting as if he were admiring it.

  “You know why we’re fighting this war, Bernie?” Fieren asked.

  Rarely had Bernat been so primed to dazzle someone with a detailed answer to an unexpected question, but his uncle barreled onward before he could speak.

  “We’re fighting because Quah-Halach was part of the Tellurian Empire, and that makes it rightfully ours, as the inheritors of that empire. Vinzhalia is fighting to ‘take back’ what was never hers in the first place. They don’t pay any heed to proper claims and natural rights, so why should we treat them any differently?”

  “Indeed,” Bernat cut in. “It is not unlike meeting a man on the street with inferior—”

  But his uncle wasn’t listening. “In the last war with Vinzhalia,” he said, “we could have finished them once and for all. Did you know that?”

  “I did not,” Bernat said. “Though I might almost compare the situation to—”

  “We should have done it, too,” Fieren continued, heedless. “Burned the whole damn country to the ground, if that’s what it took. If they’d listened to me back then, we wouldn’t be in this mess now—a mess the papers are blaming me for. Can you imagine it, Bernie? Blaming me? The one man who saw what had to be done, and the one man no one listened to.”

  “It’s a travesty, Uncle,” Bernat said, not entirely sure whether he was referring to the war, or to the missed opportunity to impress his uncle with his ingenious footwear analogy. “But take heart. Things will turn around. We haven’t lost a war in three generations.”

  His uncle deigned to smile at him. “Good lad,” he said. “That’s the spirit. I wish the Crown had your attitude.”

  There followed another long silence, and he considered whether he might find some excuse to go into his shoe metaphor. In the end, however, he decided it was better to get to the point. “Mother sent me a semaphore saying you have money for me.”

  Lord Fieren began to laugh, and laughed so hard that he had to hand his tea over to the aide-de-camp to keep from spilling it. “Is that so?” he asked.

  Bernat began to sweat. “Yes,” he said. “What’s so funny?”

  Uncle Fieren grinned. “She sent me a semaphore asking if I would commission you into the army.”

  Bernat’s sweat turned icy. “I don’t find that at all funny,” he said, his voice quavering.

  “Well, I do,” the general said, wheezing in delight. “Thank you, Bernie, you’ve brightened a truly rotten day.”

  Bernat stared in horror, slowly realizing that his uncle was perfectly serious.

  “Don’t be so glum, Bernie. The army’s the perfect place for a second son. You have no idea what joy I take in lording my position over your father, the marquis. Gaston here will draw up the paperwork, and you’ll be commissioned an ensign by suppertime. It’ll all have to be confirmed by the Ministry of the Army, of course, but that’s just a formality.”

  Bernat stalled for time. “Pray tell, Uncle, what is an ensign’s job?”

  “Oh, it’s, uh…” The general was at a loss, and had to look to his aide.

  “It is the most junior rank of commissioned officer, sir.”

  “Well, I know that, Gaston!” the general harrumphed. “But how would you describe what an ensign does?”

  Gaston considered it, then said, “When I was an ensign, sir, they said my job was to sit around being useless while I learned the trade from my superiors.”

  The general nodded. “Well, there you have it, Bernie. I expect you’ll have no trouble with the first bit, and the second will come in time.”

  Bernat’s lower lip quivered. “And the pay?”

  “I’d say about half a lira a week, wouldn’t you, Gaston? But think of it this way, Bernie. Once you’ve paid your weekly mess bill, and once you’ve paid off the cost of your uniform, your buttons, your sword, and your horse, well … the rest is pure profit, isn’t it?”

  Bernat tried not to cry. “And how long will it take to pay those off?”

  “Oh, well, let’s see. An average horse costs me about two hundred and fifty liras. So that would take, what?” He descended into thought.

  “About ten years at an ensign’s pay, sir,” Gaston said.

  Bernat slumped, hopeless. “Ten years? Do horses even live that long?”

  “Gaston,” the general said, “how long does a horse live?”

  “On a battlefield, sir? I’d say about fifteen minutes.”

  “Ha-ha!” The general reached up and punched his aide hard on the shoulder. “What a droll fellow!”

  Gaston stood there, holding the general’s tea and being punched in the arm, his composure infinite. He rocked back and forth with the punch, tea sloshing in the cup, but not a drop was spilled.

  The general turned back to Bernat. “Perhaps it’s best to forgo a horse, at least at first.”

  Bernat suddenly remembered something. “And how much does a colonel of militia make?”

  The question shocked even the placid Gaston. The general twisted his face and said, “A what?”

  “If I can raise a regiment of militia, the army will make me the colonel of it. Is that not correct? I only ask because it sounds a lot more fun, being a colonel.”

  “How in damnation do you even know about that?” the general asked. “We’re keeping the policy secret until we can work out a wa
y to announce it that doesn’t smell of desperation.”

  “Well, it’s gotten out somehow,” Bernat said. “People are talking about it. I listen, you know.” Actually, now that he thought of it, he was reasonably sure that he’d learned of this secret policy by reading about it in the morning paper.

  Lord Fieren harrumphed. “In any event, a fresh regiment is at least a thousand men, Bernie. Where the devil are you going to find a thousand men?”

  “Ah,” said Bernat. He pondered, then looked up. “Perhaps you could lend them to me? Just until I find my own, of course.”

  Fieren eyed him. “I tell you what. Because you’re family, you can bring me nine hundred, and I’ll make up the rest.”

  Bernat did his best to look appreciative, but he was at a loss. He didn’t even know where spare militiamen were kept. “That’s very generous, Uncle, but I don’t think I can manage it.”

  “Then we’d better sign you up as an ensign, eh? Oh, don’t be such a child. If you like, I’ll put you on my staff, so you don’t have to deal with the rabble in the ranks. Come now, it’s a far sight better than starving in the streets.”

  Bernat wasn’t so sure of that. He’d passed plenty of people who were starving in the streets on his way to the museum, and, while he didn’t precisely envy them their circumstance, at least they weren’t reeling about with a bullet in their guts. “Are, uh, ensigns shot at very often?” he asked.

  “Oh rarely, Bernie. Rarely. Wouldn’t you say, Gaston?”

  “I was just about to, sir. Lieutenants, on the other hand…”

  Fieren gave Bernat an appraising look. “Well, yes, but I don’t think Bernie here will have to worry much about promotion.”

  Bernat was still not convinced, but he supposed he could try being an ensign for a while and, if it didn’t work out, he could always change his mind and starve in the streets later on. He gave a feeble nod and said, “Very well, Uncle.”

  “Good boy. Now, I have a few other matters to take care of. Why don’t you hang about and look at the paintings until we’re ready to deal with you. Gaston? Will you see about freshening my tea?”

  * * *

  JOSETTE DIDN’T KNOW why she’d been summoned to a museum, of all places. She just hoped General Lord Fieren wasn’t one of those inscrutable men who held meetings in front of thematically appropriate paintings.

  She made her way into the appointed gallery, where Lord Fieren and his infamous mustache were sitting together and enjoying a cup of tea. Captain Gaston Katsura, the general’s aide-de-camp, stood stiff and tall at his side, and some aristocratic fop leaned against the wall nearby, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

  Mere minutes from now, she might be assigned to some backwater signal base on a lonely stretch of the border, sent to a distant outpost in the Utarman fever swamps, or even kicked out of the service entirely, left to live on a manufactory woman’s stipend in Arle, or as the wife of some idiot yokel back home in Durum.

  She took a deep breath, walked to the edge of General Fieren’s sight, and saluted.

  The general returned an approximation of a salute, waving his palm vaguely in the direction of his eyebrow. “Lieutenant Dupre,” he said, without looking at her.

  “Sir.”

  He finally deigned to look her way, then furrowed his brow. “I heard you were taller.”

  Josette was surprised. “We, uh, have met before, sir.”

  “Have we?” He took another sip of his tea, careful not to wet his mustache. “I don’t recall it.”

  “The Halachia campaign in ’22, sir.” She stared straight ahead, never meeting his hard gaze. He made no sign of recognizing her, much to her amazement. Little more than a decade earlier, she’d stood anxiously before him in the amnesty court set up after the women’s auxiliary was established. Only a few dozen women had turned themselves in, trading in their men’s uniforms for the ridiculous, impractical skirts that the air auxiliaries had been expected to wear back then. Josette was the only officer among them, though a mere ensign, and had thought herself memorable.

  “I was second officer aboard the Whimbrel.”

  “And…” He paused. “That was one of my airships?”

  “High altitude scout, sir.”

  “Aha,” he said. “I still don’t remember you.”

  Josette didn’t know how to answer that, and by the time she did think of something, awkward seconds had passed, and it no longer seemed appropriate.

  Apart from the occasional footsteps of another visitor to the gallery, and the intermittent mewling sounds bubbling out of the young fop, the only noise was the general sipping his tea. Was it her imagination, or was the sound of it growing louder with each sip?

  “I expected you’d still be in the field, sir,” she said, merely to create some idle conversation.

  “Not that I have to explain myself to you,” he answered sharply, “but I’m here ahead of the army, preparing to go north and return to Quah.”

  At first, she thought she’d heard him wrong. “But the second front of the war—”

  He cut her off. “Has been invented by poltroon journalists to sell newspapers.” His mustache twitched back and forth. “I assure you, Lieutenant, the remnants of the Vinzhalian expedition we defeated are rushing north as we speak, cursing themselves for siphoning vital troops from the Quahnic campaign. This recent action was nothing but a…” He waved his hand vaguely. “An exploratory stab. They know we’re wearing them down. They know we’re on the brink of turning the tables, and in desperation they tossed the dice with this attack. Now that it’s been repulsed, they’ll be back to the real business of this war. Ah, but if we’re quick, if we can move our expeditionary force north faster than the Vins can?” He flashed a wicked smile. “Then we’ll have them!”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. According to a certain set, Garnia was perpetually wearing the Vins down, on the brink of turning the tables, and had been since the war began. Never mind that men were being sent to the front half-trained. Never mind that women were being shoveled into the manufactories, into the signal corps, into the logistics corps, in a desperate attempt to free up fighting men—so that they could be sent to the front half-trained. Never mind all that, and didn’t you know, we haven’t lost a war in three generations?

  She looked from him to the painting. “Lovely painting,” she said, desperate to change the subject before she accidentally spoke her mind.

  The general ran his eyes over it and smiled. “It is. And appropriate to our business today.”

  Oh hell, she thought.

  “Do you hunt, Dupre?”

  “Yes, sir. Or rather, I did years ago, back in Durum. Only for food, though. And not with dogs, of course.” She laughed, hoping her nervousness wasn’t showing. “If we’d had that many dogs, well, we wouldn’t have had to hunt, would we?”

  The general peered at her for several seconds and said, “What a delightful story.” He looked at Captain Katsura. “Gaston, wasn’t that a delightful story?”

  Katsura seemed to consider the question, frowned, and said, “I didn’t care for the dog-eating part.”

  “Well, I thought it was a delightful little story.” Fieren beamed such a smile that it made his mustache bend in the middle. “I’ve heard a lot of delightful little stories about Lieutenant Dupre over the past couple days.”

  “Sir, I’m not…” Josette stammered. “I mean, I didn’t…”

  “Of course not.” Lord Fieren’s smile grew wider. “An officer in the King’s Army, even a mere auxiliary officer, wouldn’t go around spreading fanciful tales that denigrate and undermine her superior officer. What do they call that sort of thing, Gaston?”

  “Treason, sir.”

  The general looked at him, then back at Josette. “I believe the word I wanted was ‘slander,’ but either will do in a pinch.”

  The prospect of a quiet life as a yokel’s wife suddenly seemed more appealing. Josette swallowed, but it didn’t relieve the sudden constriction in her thr
oat. She could already feel the hangman’s noose tightening around it.

  The general reached into his coat and came out with a folded piece of paper. A lawsuit? A discharge? A death warrant? He rose and handed his tea to Captain Katsura.

  Josette stiffened and stared straight ahead.

  The general stood before her. “Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

  Her eyes whipped up to his. “Sir?”

  He thrust the paper at her. She unfolded it with shaking hands and read. In her addled state, she missed half the words, but there was one sentence that her eyes ran over again and again. It read, We, reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage, and Good Conduct, do by these Presents Promote you to the Rank of Senior Lieutenant in His Royal Majesty’s Aerial Signal Corps.

  Her eyes scanned down the paper. It was signed not by a promotions board, nor by Lord Fieren Hinkal, nor even by an officer of the Ministry of the Army. Rather, it was the flowing, artful signature of Leon the 18th, King of Garnia.

  Well, of course it was. A moment’s reflection would have told her that, for only the Crown would dare set such a precedent—a precedent that might well pave the way for a fully integrated army. No doubt some confidant close to the king, an avid reader of the broadsheets and a realist who appreciated the army’s manpower shortage, had whispered the idea in his ear.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” the general said, with sharp emphasis on every word. “I expect you to use discretion when commanding junior lieutenants.”

  Oh, of course. They couldn’t have her ordering male lieutenants around on the flimsy pretext that she outranked them.

  “And I suppose you’ll be wondering about a command,” the general added.

  Actually, it hadn’t even occurred to her that they’d give her a ship. Putting a woman in command of an airship was as unprecedented as … well, as unprecedented as promoting one to senior lieutenant, now that she thought about it. But wouldn’t it make a hell of a pitch, if and when the recruiters went looking for women to join the army?