A minute later, the shattered door is kicked in by determined boots, and there are sharp commands for everyone to stay still and that anyone reaching for a weapon will be shot. One of the rebels tries his luck anyway, and is dealt with as promised. More heavy boots thud in the kitchen area, and there’s another couple of rounds fired, a man screams and is cut off with another shot. Dek doesn’t dare look up to see what’s going on, but he can guess, based on his own experiences. It’s the Febkeinze army, he’s sure of it.
The rebel soldiers are hauled out of the house, then it’s their turn. “Sit up,” he’s ordered, a none too gentle kick to his hip reinforcing the words. Dek helps Ren crawl out from under the table and sit, before he looks up and sees a young thin-faced officer with stone cold eyes staring down at him.
He’s holding a Febkeinze-issue automatic pistol on them, and Dek’s sure there are still bullets in the clip. He doesn’t want to give the man any excuse to use them. “We’re Pindoni,” he says quickly. “Utag Dekan hon Cerimwe and Arwe Rensire hon Parmin. He’s a doctor.”
The officer frowns. “Utag?”
“Retired,” Dek assures him.
“I’m Kazmi Harno, Febkeinze Military Service. What are you doing here?”
Dek very carefully makes no move to get to his feet. “We were captured a short while ago by these rebels. We’re just exploring the north of your country. Rock hounds,” he says and it sounds ridiculous even to him.
Harno isn’t impressed either. “Are you injured?” he asks Ren, seeing the blood on his hands and his shirt.
“He doesn’t speak Febkeinze, Kazmi. He’s not hurt—he was forced to operate on that man.” Dek points at the corpse on the table—now just one of several in the room.
Harno’s eyes narrow. “‘Forced’? Get up.” Dek helps Ren stand—he’s favouring one side and has to lean heavily on Dek. “I thought you said he wasn’t injured.”
“He’s not. He’s sick.”
Harno’s suspicious, and not inclined to be generous in his assessment. “As far as I can see, he, and possibly you, are involved in giving aid and comfort to enemies of Febkeinzian. I’m placing you under arrest. My reteri can deal with you.”
Dek nods—only to be expected. “Please—we have three urtibes and our packs. Any chance they can be brought along?”
The officer gives the orders, and Dek tells them they have cold weather clothing as well. Their urtibes they’ll have to leave, but they’re told that any pack animals in the barn will be transported separately, and Dek’s assured that theirs will be looked after. It’s the most he can expect, and he thanks the kazmi for that. Ren’s given a chance to wash the blood off in the kitchen and they’re allowed to dress in their outdoor gear, before their hands are tied behind them. They’re taken outside—just in time to see the aftermath of the execution of several of the rebel soldiers in front of the store. Ren stops, his eyes wide and horrified as he stares at the bound and blindfolded bodies lying in the dirt, the soldiers bringing their rifles to rest position while a junior officer checks the prisoners are dead.
Kazmi Harno turns to Dek, his brown eyes colder than snow on basalt. “These men killed ten of my soldiers in a raid this morning. If I find you’ve been working for them, you can expect the same. Move.”
Dek tells Ren to keep walking. “They’re in a war,” he says quietly as they are herded towards a troop transport.
“Yes, I know. I just...thought they’d be taken prisoner. Like us.”
“Rules of engagement, most likely. I’d have done the same thing.” There’s a slight tilt of the officer’s head as Dek says this. Harno speaks Pindoni, Dek realises. Or at least he understands it. They need to be careful.
They’re seated next to each other in the transport, hands still bound. It’s obviously awkward and uncomfortable for Ren, and Dek suddenly wonders if he’s been injured in the falls they’ve taken. If the baby’s been hurt, or even killed, Ren’s in trouble. “Are you all right?” he whispers.
Ren give him a brief, wry smile. “Been better. This is a mess.”
“Yes,” Dek admits. “If we could find someone who speaks Pindoni,” he says, turning his head briefly in the direction of the kazmi who’s sitting across from them, but for the moment, not looking their way, “it would help.”
“Yes, it would,” Ren says, and gives Dek an infinitesimal nod. Dek hopes he got the message.
They’re driven about five pardecs to a dusty base camp set up in the middle of bugger all so far as Dek can see—he can only assume it must have some strategic importance but what it’s defending, he can’t tell. It’s a large camp with dozens of Pindoni-made brown felt tents laid out in neat rows, and there’s at least one pre-fab rigid structure which means it’s intended for long-term use. Going by the number of tents, and the presence of a reteri, he estimates at least five hundred men are stationed here, and that it probably supports two, if not more, outposts. It’s possible that its location is a compromise to enable men to be shunted quickly between distant positions, or perhaps it’s simply because the rebels have so recently established bases here. The Febkeinze method is to set up these large military camps on a semi-permanent basis through the country even in peace time, but this one may have been moved here within the last month or so—they have that mobility down to a fine art.
A camp this size means a lot of men and supplies need shifting around. They’re driven up to where a large pool of battered brown transports and two-wheels—the rugged trail versions made in Pindone—are parked. Some transports are being refuelled, others are being repaired—one’s in pieces while a couple of mournful mechanics stand and stare at the corpse. Bright sparks fly and metal screeches over in the far corner as bodywork is rewelded. There are also several dozen pack animals—barchins and gekels—in a metal-fenced corral behind the transport pool. A number of the animals are injured, and now Dek looks more closely, he can see that a few of the soldiers working on the veecles are sporting bandages, and there’s bullet and explosive damage to several transports. There’s an air of tension—no one’s slouching around, taking it easy. Men walk fast, urgently, and their voices are clipped and lacking in smiles. He knows the signs. The camp’s been under fire, and recently. They’ve lost people—too many people. No wonder Kazmi Harno’s looking so tense.
They’re helped down from the transport, and then they’re hustled to a tent deep within the compound—some kind of storeroom, it looks like, as there are crates and bins stacked neatly in the corner. Their hands are untied, and then they’re told to strip to their underwear—it’s cold and the little gas-powered heater that’s brought in and set in the corner isn’t enough to warm the space properly, but Dek doesn’t argue and neither does Ren. The two young soldiers assigned to guard them, stare at Ren’s belly, and after some hasty whispering, one runs off. The other one tells them to sit on the ground, pointing his gun at them rather nervously, and Dek’s flattered that half-naked and battered, they apparently still look dangerous.
Though the felt and canvas floor doesn’t offer much protection from the underlying chill—the Pindoni army uses rubber matting, but the Febkeinze are traditionalists about such things, it seems—they’re in no position to demand chairs. Ren feels the cold worse than Dek and leans against him for what warmth he can. “Well, we’re still not dead,” he says in a breathy laugh.
“Yeah. Who’d have thought it?”
The other soldier returns with Kazmi Harno. “What’s wrong with him?” Harno asks, pointing at Ren.
In his underwear, the incongruence of his bulging belly is even more marked, with his skinny legs and wasted physique. It makes the lie much more believable, and it comes easily off Dek’s tongue now. “He has a tumour. Inoperable. He’s dying.”
Ren murmurs, “What are you telling them?”
In Pindoni, Dek says, “About your tumour. That you’re dying.”
“I don’t want people to know about that,” Ren says with just the right amount of sad defiant bravery.
Damn, he’s good.
“I’m sorry but they have to.”
“I’m conducting an interrogation here,” Harno snaps.
“Sorry,” Dek says in Febkeinze. “He’s had a bad day.”
“Are you two lovers?”
“Friends,” Dek says, because the Febkeinze don’t like homosexual relationships and besides, it’s true that they’re not lovers. After what Ren said when he thought they were about to be killed, Dek’s prepared to rethink the friendship side of it, but not now.
Harno points at Ren’s tattooed hand. “What does that mark mean?”
“He’s a paranormal—a Gifted one,” Dek amends, using the Febkeinze term. “Our government does that to all their kind.”
“But you are not.”
“No. Just a friend.”
Harno glares. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” Dek says, rather indignant because he wasn’t.
“Not about this, his illness.” Harno smiles rather nastily. “I am also a paranormal, Utag Dekan.”
“You’re an empath? So’s he.”
Harno blinks in surprise. “Ah. Well that’s interesting but less important than what you were doing with our enemy. Get up, my reteri wants to see you. I advise you not to lie to him—he’s had a very bad day and so have I. We lost a lot of men this morning.”
Dek bows his head. “I know the feeling. I’m sorry.”
“Move,” Harno says.
They’re allowed to pull on their boots, trousers and undershirts, though nothing else, then they’re hustled out and along through the camp. Dek hopes like hell they’re going to be given back their clothes soon because that brief exposure to the frigid, desiccating wind off the plains is enough to freeze his balls off. The soldiers aren’t trying to be unkind, they’re just busy and harried and Dek and Ren are just bloody nuisances. The fact that no one spares them more than a cursory glance tells Dek the people here have got more than enough on their minds to give a damn about two inadequately clothed foreigners.
They’re not taken far and the relief from the wind is instantaneous. They’re ushered into a field office that’s serving as someone’s bedroom too, from the look of it—there’s a neat cot bed in the corner, and a locker with a field pack and helmet set tidily at the end of it. At least it’s warmer in here, but they’re not offered a seat by the officer who stays seated as they’re brought up in front of him. The soldiers remain on guard inside the room, which is only to be expected, if not a little ridiculous. Harno stays too, standing beside his commander’s desk.
The reteri’s a tall, greying man with stooped shoulders, and permanent frown lines on his brown face. He looks tired, but that’s no surprise. “I am Reteri Guei,” he says, fixing them with a baleful eye. “Which one of you is Utag Dekan?”
“That’s me, Reteri. I’m retired,” he emphasises, because he doesn’t want to be shot as a spy. “I’m here as a civilian.”
The reteri makes an impatient noise. “Yes, I understand that. Why were you in the rebel camp?”
“We didn’t know it was,” Dek said. “We were looking for supplies, and were captured when we tried to go into the store.”
“Kazmi Harno says you were helping the rebels.”
“No, we weren’t. They forced Ren to operate on one of their dying men by threatening me. It wasn’t our choice.”
“Hmmm. Strange coincidence that they need a doctor and one appears as if by magic. What are you doing in this country?”
Dek repeats their cover story and the reteri snorts. “Rock hounds? I’ve seen your samples, Utag, and they’re nothing more than what you’ve clearly hastily picked up at the side of the path. You’re no more rock hounds than I’m a doctor, which I wish I was because those bastards killed ours this morning.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Keep your platitudes and tell me the truth. Why are you in Febkeinzian?”
“I told you....”
“And you lied.” The reteri turns to Ren. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks—in perfect, if accented Pindoni.
Ren starts a little. “I’ve got a stomach tumour. It’s inoperable. I just wanted to travel through Febkeinzian one more time, see the geology, then go to my family in the Weadenal.”
He sounds utterly plausible, and they’d probably have got away with it if it wasn’t for Harno shaking his head. “Shame,” the reteri says, throwing his pen down, and looking at Dek. “I have many Pindoni friends.”
“I was stationed here for a long time, Reteri. I’m no enemy to your country.”
“And yet you’re wandering around a war zone, lying to the official military presence, aiding and comforting our enemies...I’m sorry, Utag, but I’ll have to return you to your country and report your activities. The Pindonis, like us, take a dim view of their citizens spying, especially on their allies.”
Dek opens his mouth to protest, but is interrupted by shouting and the sounds of running feet near the reteri’s tent. Both the officers get up and quickly walk out, leaving Dek and Ren under guard.
“What’s going on?” Ren asks as soon as they are relatively alone.
“He doesn’t buy it.”
“I know that. I mean out there.”
“How the hell do I know? He’s going to send us back to Pindone.”
“You, you mean. Me—I won’t get that far,” Ren says with a sad smile. “Don’t worry—I won’t involve you in it.”
“Ren....”
“No, Dek. It’s over. We gave it our absolute best shot, but it’s done. I was ready to die back in that house. I won’t be taken back to Pindone, and I won’t let you suffer for my actions.”
“Ren, you can’t....”
But before he can finish, the reteri’s rushed into the tent and grabbed Ren by the arm. “We have wounded,” he snaps. “Will you help us?”
“Yes,” Ren says without any hesitation.
“Then come. You too.”
They’re led off at a run and Dek’s thinking this is the second weirdest day of his life, but there’s no time to sit and be amazed because they’re suddenly in the compound and surrounded by dozens of injured and dying men. Some are on stretchers, others being carried by friends, several walking, holding bloodied bandages against head and arm wounds, and more are being brought in all the time. The stench of blood and explosives is thick and nauseating in the freezing dry air, the cries of dying men and their friends bellowing desperately for help familiar in an utterly unwelcome way. Dek swallows hard. Hold it together, Dekan. Hold it together.
They come to a brief halt to allow yet more wounded to pass them. “What happened?” he asks Harno.
“Bomb at an outpost.”
“Fuck,” Dek says with such feeling that Harno looks at him in surprise. “Tell you later.” Not Denebwei. Not Altiri. Hold it together, Dekan.
Harno frowns a little as if concerned, touches his arm briefly. “I’m all right,” Dek says.
Harno nods, then they follow Guei and Ren into the field hospital—it’s the rigid structure Dek had noted earlier. The place is in chaos—men are just being dumped on the wooden floor because there’s so many more where they came from and the urgent need is to get them out of the cold wind and desert dust. The stench in here is much worse—blood and bowels and piss and faintly, some harsh disinfectant, though who’s applying it, he’s not sure. There are some soldiers with the Febkeinze medic symbol trying to tend to the wounded, but it’s like trying to hold back a flood with a blade of grass, and for every man being helped by a medic, a dozen more are being left to whimper and pray and beg for something, anything to stop the pain.
Ren comes to a halt, making the same rapid assessment as Dek has. “Get me some scrubs,” Ren says. “How many medics do you have?” he asks Guei. “Any that speak Pindoni?”
“Six medics. Two speak Pindoni.”
“Bring those two here. Dek, I need an interpreter. You too,” he says, pointing at Harno, “or someone else, and we’ll need more help in here
to move stretchers. I want to carry out triage, stat. Clear that area there and I want the walking wounded over there.” He points at the far end of the hospital. “Hurry up, will you!”
The two officers snap into action, and Ren’s requests—orders—are filled without any argument. Dek’s pressed into service as a medic as well as a translator, and Ren’s team, so quickly thrown together, start to work as one, moving between injured soldiers with an efficiency Dek’s silently astonished at.
Somewhere along the way he’s given scrubs too. One of the medics is set to dealing with the walking wounded, and two soldiers are seconded to help him. Ren carries out a brutally swift triage on the stretcher cases, and Harno tags the patients to his dictation. Then in the small operating area in the corner of the hospital, Ren gets going on the most urgent injuries, using one of the Pindoni speaking medics as his assistant, while Dek and the others continue giving what care they can to those waiting to be operated on, or who are dying. The fact Dek’s a foreign prisoner in a hostile camp slips his mind after the first five minutes.
It’s a kind of grotesque production line—men being readied to be shoved onto Ren’s operating table, then removed once repaired. Dek’s too busy to keep an eye on Ren continuously, but every few minutes, he looks over to where the man is working, a tall figure among a sea of much shorter Febkeinze. He occasionally hears Ren’s urgent calls for this or that, sees the patients being taken away once he’s done with them—some with cloths over their faces despite Ren’s best efforts, but more being borne to the recovery tent behind the hospital proper. There’s always another injured man to take the empty place on the table, and more are coming in every few minutes.
Walk a Lonesome Road Page 15