by J. J. Holden
Taggart frowned. He had expected this, of course. Unfortunately, Doug really had his mind set on establishing tariffs, and Taggart needed Doug for many reasons. Not just to settle the issues of interstate trade, but for the rebuilding process itself. The man was a genius, for a bureaucrat, and sometimes a bureaucrat was the one to hire to get things done at a governmental level. Especially when you had no experience in government yourself, which Taggart had discovered was entirely different than commanding men and women on the battlefield.
He said, “Very well, then. I see that your position is clear, and I can respect that. It puts me in a difficult situation, vis-à-vis Doug’s priorities. Nonetheless, I believe I have strong grounds to delay the issue until at least after the winter gathering to discuss the Constitution. But you must understand, by doing this you place yourself somewhat in my debt. I’ll expect that debt to be reconciled eventually. I’m no politician, so I’m just telling it to you straight.”
“If we are talking straight,” Jaz said, “then I have to say, I don’t feel we owe you any favors by asking you to protect your own territory.”
Taggart thought she made a good point. This was exactly why he hated playing politics. It could tarnish the greatest relationships—as well as good people—and that was the last thing he wanted. He decided to be honest. “I understand your point and I don’t like it either, but it’s how things work in government.”
Choony bowed his head slightly as if he understood.
“So, do we have a deal?” Taggart said, holding out his hand.
Choony got up and shook it. “Yes.”
Taggart smiled. “Very well then. We have an agreement. I’ll hold Doug off, and you’ll let Cassy know where things stand.”
About five minutes after they left his office, Taggart’s aide entered and said, “Sir, Doug is here to see you. He seems rather… upset. He says he needs to speak to you immediately.”
Taggart let out a frustrated breath. “Very well. Send him in.”
As his aide left, Taggart steeled himself for a meeting with Doug. Talking to that bureaucrat was always very irritating, at the least.
Taggart couldn’t wait for the elections.
* * *
Ethan sat on his horse’s saddle uncomfortably and spent most of his time making sure his mount never sped up faster than a good trot. Over the last year, he had become much better at riding, but the others had spent far more time in the saddle than he had. He was pretty good by prewar standards, but barely adequate by today’s.
His mission this afternoon was simple. Lititz had moved their directional WiFi relay station, and now he had to readjust the last relay in the chain to restore a direct connection between the Clan and Lititz.
“How’s the garden coming?” Ethan asked John Talbot, the rider next to him. John was his assistant for the task. “Did you ever get around to amending the soil with the lime the way you had wanted?” Ethan knew John had been struggling with his private garden, trying to get several herbs to grow in order to add them to the Clan’s vast variety of herbs growing semi-naturally in the food forest.
John gently guided his horse around a large rock, then said, “Yeah, I sure did. It’s too soon to tell, but I think I’m going to have good results. I already have a few little green shoots coming up. I know Cassy says they’re not native to this region and won’t last long, but since we have the seeds, I don’t see why we shouldn’t plant them.”
Ethan chuckled. “Yeah, she’s all about the perennials, especially, and whatever annuals will grow in this region year after year. Using up seeds that we could trade instead of growing is a tough sell.”
John pointed up ahead. “Hey, I think I see the tower. Hopefully we can get this done before dinner, and I won’t have to eat field rations.”
Ethan looked to where John had pointed, and it was indeed the tower they needed. A weird boxlike assembly sat atop a tree, the upper portion removed. This allowed the box to sit up high where it could get a clear signal, and avoided the need to set up a telephone pole way the hell out here. Boy, that would have been a real chore. They had used telephone poles where necessary, but a tree made a much more efficient option. “Maybe we can get back for evening chow. It depends on how long it takes to realign the box. How’s your climbing?”
John frowned. “And here I thought you brought me for my good looks.”
“Well, as handsome as you are, I still have to stay down here. Need to monitor the signal strength on both ends so we know when it’s set up correctly. And only I know how to read these instruments.”
John made a big show of grumbling about his fate, when it came time to work, but he always hit his task with speed and intensity.
Life among the Clan was all about getting things done, no matter who was the best choice. They just had to suck it up and do it. Really, it was the reason the Clan was so successful. Frank made it a point to know the skills everyone possessed, and whenever a task came up, he’d make sure the best one for the job was chosen.
John scrambled up the tree, and Ethan heard the chink-chink of his spiked shoe attachments giving him purchase as he climbed. It took him a few minutes to get to the top, and then he called down, “I’m ready when you are, boss.”
Ethan opened his laptop, one of the simple new Raspberry Pi computers he’d set up. It took only a minute to get the correct software loaded and honed in on both signals—the one from Lititz, and the one from Clanholme—and saw that the signal strength from Lititz was indeed at zero.
Over the next forty-five minutes, Ethan communicated by radio with his counterpart in Lititz, and between the two of them, they established a WiFi connection to the box atop the tree. Still, signal strength was low and Ethan decided more work was needed. John would be disappointed, he knew, but it was important to have a solid signal. He called up to John, “Lunchtime. Get your ass down here.”
A couple minutes later, John joined him on the forest floor. He walked up to Ethan and said, “Well, I had hoped we’d get out of here faster, but it is what it is. Oh boy, field rations. It reminds me of an old Far Side cartoon, where a dog is standing at his dish, looking up all excited, and the caption says, ‘Oh boy! Dog food, again!’ You ever see that one?”
Ethan smiled. “Probably. I think I read them all. But I got an MRE and a pemmican bar. What about you?”
John shrugged. “I got an MRE and a peach. I’d rather have the pemmican bar, though. I’m super hungry.”
Ethan raised one eyebrow as he looked at John. “You’re crazy. I’d so rather have the peach.”
“Shoot. I’ll trade you.”
Ethan nodded. “Here, take it,” he said as he held out the pemmican bar.
John eagerly traded with him. “Thanks, man. I always knew you were a peach.”
Ethan grinned. “Ha ha. Very funny. Enjoy your hard fat-and-powdered-meat bar.”
“I will,” John said, then he took a big bite.
They ate in silence for a little while, then John said, “So what do you think is wrong with the connection?”
Ethan finished chewing, then said, “I have no idea. Maybe there’s a tree in the way, between us and Lititz. If we can’t get it figured out soon, though, we’re going to have to ride out and find the interference.”
John groaned. “I sure hope not, because I’d hate to miss dinner—”
John stopped mid-sentence. Ethan looked over at the man and saw he wore a confused expression. Slowly, his face began to turn red.
“Are you choking?” Ethan cried.
John shook his head sharply, then grabbed his throat with both hands. His face continued to turn red, and his eyes started to bulge.
Ethan leaped to his feet and rushed to John’s side. If he wasn’t choking, then the only other option was an allergic reaction. Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out an EpiPen, removed the cap, and plunged it into John’s leg. Then he stood and took two steps back, waiting for the result. Mouth-to-mouth would be useless if John’s air passag
es were completely closed off from an allergic reaction… It was the EpiPen or nothing.
Two minutes later, John sprawled on the forest floor, dead.
Ethan crouched, rolled the man over, and rested John’s head in his lap. “Goddammit,” he muttered. “That should’ve worked.”
Then he saw a slight trickle of blood seeping from John’s eyes. Ethan opened John’s mouth, and saw that there was blood in his mouth as well. What the hell could explain that?
Ethan bolted onto his horse and rode hard for Clanholme. When he arrived, his horse frothing and sweaty, he leaped off and left the horse to the stablehand.
He sprinted toward the complex, desperately looking for Lance Corporal Sturm. She had been a paramedic before joining the Marines.
After several minutes of searching and calling out her name, however, Ethan saw her running toward him.
“I heard you were looking for me. What’s going on, Ethan?” Sturm asked, breath heavy.
Ethan managed to say, “It’s John Talbot. One of the new Clanners from out west. I think he’s dead…”
“Where is he?”
“I’ll show you.”
Ethan rushed toward the stables, with Sturm following closely behind. They grabbed two new horses and rode fast out of Clanholme. Once at the site, Sturm vaulted from her saddle and scrambled toward John’s body. By the time Ethan dismounted, she had her flashlight out and was shining it into John’s eyes.
When Ethan caught up to her, Sturm asked, “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I gave him my pemmican bar and when he ate it, he looked like he was choking.”
“Maybe it was a peanut allergy?”
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t think so. I stuck him with an EpiPen. What about the blood in his eyes? I could guess that an allergy could blister and bleed where it touched his mouth and throat, but his eyes?”
Still crouching, Sturm looked up at Ethan. “Yeah, that doesn’t seem very likely, does it?”
“Could he have had a medical condition that nobody knew about? He was pretty new to the Clan, after all.”
“I suppose. But I don’t think that’s very likely. Did he eat the entire bar?”
Ethan glanced around, then saw the remains of the pemmican bar lying in the dirt. “Looks like he only ate about half of it. You think something was wrong with the bar?”
“I don’t know,” Sturm said, shaking her head. “But I think it’s the most likely thing. I guess we need to take the bar in for testing. We’ll know more then. In the meantime, I need to get a detail together to retrieve the body. He’s one of us now, and deserves the regular funeral.”
As Sturm gathered up the bar, Ethan stood staring at John’s body. The way the man’s eyes stared blankly up at the sky was unnerving. If something was wrong with the bar, then that could just as easily have been Ethan himself. Even as he stared, Ethan thought that perhaps he could see the blood on his face changing, coagulating. It shouldn’t yet be coagulating. Something was definitely wrong.
Sturm rode off at a full gallop, and Ethan gathered his equipment. It was hard to collect everything with the body lying there, seemingly staring at him. He would have to mess with restoring full signal strength between Clanholme and Lititz later, and wasn’t looking forward to it. Coming back out here would only remind him of John. For the moment, the weak signal would have to do. Ethan was done working on it for now.
Once he gathered his gear, Ethan packed it on the horse and mounted up. He flicked the reins and the horse began walking home. He didn’t feel like nudging it to go faster, but rather appreciated the long ride home. When he got there, he handed the reins to the stablehand without comment. He walked toward Cassy’s house without returning anyone’s greetings. He was in a daze, and only wanted to get back down into the safety of his bunker. Only there did he feel safe on a normal day, but this was no ordinary day.
An hour and a half later, one of the handheld radios on his desk squawked. With a sigh, Ethan got up from the couch and went to the desk to look. He saw that Cassy’s radio was blinking, so he clicked on the button and said, “This is Ethan. Say again?”
Cassy’s voice came back. “Ethan, come on up. I have some news for you.”
Ethan confirmed, then headed through the tunnel that led to Cassy’s house. He came up through the stairwell entry and saw Cassy sitting on her living room couch. Her expression was somber, lacking its usual friendliness.
“Sturm ran some tests on that pemmican bar.”
Ethan frowned and went to sit down on the recliner opposite the couch. If Cassy was calling him up there to tell him about the results, then they had to be bad. He braced himself, then nodded.
Cassy said, “Sturm crumbled up the pemmican bar and sprinkled it in some food she gave to a couple rabbits. A couple minutes later, both rabbits were dead.”
Ethan’s jaw dropped. His mind raced—was someone trying to kill him, or just poison someone in the Clan at random? “Has she told Michael yet?”
Cassy nodded.
“And do they have any ideas?” Ethan said.
Cassy leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, steepling her fingers together. She stared at Ethan for a long moment, then said, “You packed that day bag the night before and left it in the gear area, I’m told.”
“Right.”
“For now, we can’t tell whether you were the target or if it was random sabotage. Either way, I’m placing the Clan security forces on high alert, and I need you to be extra careful. If someone is after you in particular, we don’t know who it is. I’d rather not give them another chance to take you out.”
“I’d prefer they don’t get another shot at me, too.” Ethan looked up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. Who would be after him? Hard to say. The Clan had a lot of new faces over the last few months. They had accepted a number of refugees, replacing the Clan members who died during the war against the Mountain. They seemed to be integrating well, but any of them could be an agent of either the Empire or the Mountain. Or, they could just be a disgruntled Empire survivor. Ethan had no personal enemies that he knew of, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Both the Clan and he were in danger now, whether they were after the Clan in general or him in particular.
Elbows still on her knees, Cassy let her hands relax, dangling between her legs. She gave Ethan a half-smile and said, “Don’t worry too much, Ethan. Dark Ryder has survived too many clan raids online to be killed by something as ridiculous as a poisoned pemmican bar. Even so, I’m going to have your food tested by rabbits, or goats, or something, before I let you eat it. And I’m doubling the guard on the food stores. Meanwhile, you should stay either in the bunker or my office building just outside of Clanholme. The new tunnel addition will let you go back and forth between the two unseen.”
Well this was a fine how-do-you-do. He preferred being in the bunker, but he did not prefer being a prisoner in the bunker. “On the bright side, it gets me out of chores.” He paused. “That was funnier in my head. Sorry.”
Cassy shrugged and said, “Gallows humor is the best sort. What else can you do but laugh? It’s better than crying.”
Yeah. Better than crying. Not that he would do that. “Well, thanks for filling me in. I guess I’ll be in the bunker if you need me,” he said, chuckling. It was a forced laugh, though, and even to his own ears it sounded flat and lifeless.
As Ethan stood, Cassy also stood and walked over to him. She wrapped her arms around him and embraced him in a hug. “Don’t worry, Ethan. I promise, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
And it couldn’t happen too soon, Ethan thought as he headed toward the secret tunnel leading back to his bunker. He doubted he’d get sleep anytime soon.
It was going to be a long night.
- 4 -
1500 HOURS - ZERO DAY +612
“SIR, WE HAVE new activity to worry about,” Eagan said as he stepped up to Taggart’s desk and set a few sheets of paper down in front of him.
/> “What are these?” Taggart picked up the sheets of paper and saw that the headers on both sheets were from the intel department.
Eagan shrugged. Usually, he would have a witty retort, but not today.
Taggart looked at the sheets and skimmed them, getting a sense of what they were about. The first one was a report of increasing violence between fishing boats that belonged to the invaders in North Pennsylvania and the fishing fleet of New America. “Why would they choose now to start picking a fight? The unofficial maritime border has held up just fine all this time, but now they want to pressure us? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Respectfully, sir, if the general had bothered to read his other intel reports, he would have seen that our agents have been reporting a very poor fishing season up that way. Some of the spooks have a theory that survivors up in Nova Scotia are fishing them out. If the invaders are catching enough pressure from their north that they have to move south, that doesn’t bode well for the peace.”
Taggart harrumphed. “And if you had done your job and given me my daily briefing, as I’ve asked, then I wouldn’t need to read all this stuff. I have plenty to do without having to do your job, shitbird.”
Eagan grinned. “Sorry, sir. I shall endeavor to do better. Nothing gives me a sense of accomplishment like doing my job and yours, sir.”
Taggart’s sour face lit up. “Has Intel offered any suggestions as to what we can do about this fishing problem?”
Eagan nodded. “Yeah. They think we should throw some honest-to-goodness warships up that way. As you know, we’ve been working all winter to refit a couple of destroyers with old-school manual steering, which should make the squids happy. Your other reports, which I’m sure you also didn’t read, say that we’ve worked out the kinks on the fleet. Which is to say, all three ships. Sure, nothing works on them except the guns and the rudders, but it’s more than enough to deal with some fishing boats.”