by Trish Mercer
Shifting a bit in his chair, Stitch began with, “Well, the army does what we can for them. Some talking, you see, and—”
“You put them out to pasture, surgeon!” Shem snapped. “As if they’re an old horse no one can bear to see anymore. This happens, more frequently than anyone cares to admit, and the faster they’re swept away, the easier they are to forget. And then what happens?”
The surgeon’s mouth worked up and down, unsure of which words to let come out of it.
“I know what happens, sir. They die,” Shem said bluntly. “Check your volumes of diseases over there,” he gestured to the books on a shelf. “There’s no entry for ‘Trauma,’ is there? It’s the ignored ailment, because the army hates to think that they broke someone who they used, and have to throw him away. Well, that’s not going to happen here. No label of ‘trauma’ will be placed upon Perrin Shin, because he’s only losing a bit of sleep, correct? Which causes him to be a bit testy, right? And maybe results in his taking naps during the day, isn’t that so? All of which is normal behavior for a slightly depressed man who is grieving, wouldn’t you agree?”
Stitch didn’t know what else to say but, “Of course, Zenos.”
Shem grinned without feeling any joy. He clapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “I’m glad we had this little chat, Dr. Stitch. After all, an army that believes Beneff is still a capable soldier certainly can’t find any reason to put Perrin Shin out of it, right?”
The surgeon pointlessly moved around files on his desk. “No, absolutely not. Nor did I want to put the colonel out to pasture, I assure you. I have a job to do, you see, and Captain Thorne—”
“What’d he say?” barked Zenos.
Stitch’s head snapped up, startled at Shem’s venom. “He’s said nothing, Zenos. All I was going to say was, ‘Captain Thorne seems capable enough of carrying some extra duties, along with you and the new lieutenants, so I don’t need to make any kind of report at all to the garrison, do I now?’”
“Sorry, sir. I should have realized that . . . what I mean is—”
Stitch held up his hand to stop Shem’s apology. “Understood. It’s just that I received this,” and he held up a message. “From Administrator Brisack, asking about our colonel’s health.”
Shem pursed his lips as he read the message. Doctor Brisack knew. Mahrree had asked for the sedation, and Brisack could readily put two and three together, the prying old man.
He handed the message back to the surgeon. “Naturally Brisack is worried about the colonel. He helped treat him when we arrived in Idumea, and the colonel was feeling a bit unwell. This is merely a follow-up, and I don’t see that you need to waste anymore ink than to write, ‘Colonel Shin is doing as expected, and the fort is well under control.’”
Stitch smiled slyly. “I believe that’s exactly what I was going to write. Since the colonel hasn’t come to me for anything, he obviously isn’t in need of any treatment . . . yes, the fort and our colonel are just fine. Thank you, Zenos. That will be all.”
---
“Ah, Lieutenant Offra.”
Something in Captain Thorne’s voice reminded Offra of a teacher he had when he was thirteen: a wiry man who would have enjoyed teaching much more if he didn’t have to deal with actual children, and made sure all of his students knew what a bother they were to him. But there he was, stuck with all of them, so let’s just get this over with, shall we?
“You’re just who I needed to see.”
Offra was used to keeping his responses internalized, as he’d learned at his last posting where everything he suggested was summarily dismissed. He looked up from the large forward command desk. “Yes, Captain?” He tried to make sure his disdain for the ‘superior’ officer, three years younger than him, wasn’t obvious.
Thorne picked up a form from the desk. “I see we’re still having a little trouble with the new system I implemented.”
Offra choked back his initial response, and instead came up with, “Master Sergeant Zenos is in charge of scheduling, and I see no reason to change his system. Sir,” he added carefully.
“But what I’ve created is far more efficient,” said Thorne. “Since Zenos told me I’m to use my training to improve the fort, increasing efficiency is exactly the kind of progressive measures my father and grandfather wish to see.”
Offra was feeling exceptionally brave that morning. “Exactly how is it effective for 200 men to stand in front of the small schedule trying to decipher the confusing charts you’ve created to detail their shifts for the next four weeks, sir? With Zeno’s plan, a quick glance tells them all they need to know!”
Thorne’s glare turned condescending. “You see, Offra, that’s why I’m the captain, and you’re not. After they’ve learned my system, they’ll need to see the charts only every four weeks.”
Offra clenched his fist under the desk. “But it’s not necessary.”
Thorne tilted his head. “I doubt you would really know what’s necessary and what isn’t, Offra. I read your former commander’s review of you. He called you a merely ‘adequate officer.’”
Offra’s clenched fist lost some of its ferocity.
Thorne sniffed. “Even an ‘insubordinate’ officer is more interesting. This is probably why you were sent to the smallest fort as far away as possible where you couldn’t do any real damage.”
Only about six hours later did Offra realize that an excellent comeback would have been, “And that’s why they sent you here as well?” But Thorne’s words had stung him into silence. He didn’t realize his former commander would actually attach his disregard to Offra’s permanent file.
Thorne took Offra’s non-response as submission. “A short initial adjustment period is all that’s needed for the men, and then they’ll have a far more progressive procedure.” The captain leaned toward him. “If you want, we can always ask the colonel for his opinion.”
Offra swallowed.
The command office door swung open, and Colonel Shin strode into the forward office looking around aimlessly.
The two young officers froze in their positions, bracing for whatever might come next.
“Dumbest thing ever,” Shin mumbled as he picked up a few papers from the desk and dropped them again. “Three copies of everything. Who else wants them but Cush? Just looking for reasons to keep himself in that chair, behind that desk . . .”
Thorne and Offra watched him, but he didn’t acknowledge their presence. Shin sidled over to a large bookshelf and pulled out a few blank pages, murmuring.
“Not as if anyone will do anything with the copies. Just shove them in a crate, shove that crate in a room, then forget all about them. I’ve got a better system: one form, small page, two boxes. First box says, ‘No problems.’ Second box says, ‘Problems—send help.’ Check off the first box? Don’t even bother sending it. That’s progressive. Waste of trees. No one gets it. We need to keep the trees. But we cut down that forest to make more paper so I can write reports in triplicate to send to Idumea that no one will ever read. Ever look at your patches?”
The young officers, not sure if he was really addressing them, obligingly regarded the various patches on their uniforms.
Shin continued to ramble, not glancing at either of them. “The one issued by Idumea, with a pine tree and a sword on top of it? What’s that supposed to mean, anyway? That we defend the trees? Chop them down with our swords? No! We’re supposed to be in those trees, holding those swords, fighting alongside with the trees. But no one would ever see it that way . . .”
He was now sitting back at his desk in his office and writing on the pages he retrieved, rambling incoherently.
Smugly, Thorne turned to Offra. “Door’s open,” he whispered. “Go ahead. Ask him his opinion about the scheduling charts.”
Offra had yet to have a completely rational discussion with the colonel. Shin always looked past Offra as if he were a patch of fog, and probably didn’t even know the difference between him and Radan. And Thor
ne knew that, too.
“Take it up with the master sergeant,” Offra whispered back. “This is Zenos’s duty. He’s been at it for a dozen years now, and also believes that he has a good system. Consider his years of service, his experience—”
“Zenos? Zenos,” Thorne scoffed. “Don’t think too much of Zenos. I’m second in command here, Offra. Don’t forget that.”
Thorne stood up, straightened his jacket, and marched confidently into the command office. He knocked lightly on the door, five times, to get the colonel’s attention. “Sir?”
Offra leaned to the side to watch the colonel’s response.
Shin grunted as he copied the report he had already written. “Problem?” he said absently.
“Sir, I would check the box that said, ‘No problems.’”
Shin looked up at him, perplexed.
“I was just referring to the idea you had . . . two boxes? One form? Rather clever, sir.”
Shin’s confused expression shifted into a glare.
Offra smirked. Maybe Colonel Shin didn’t see him, but he definitely saw Thorne, and he didn’t like what he saw. There was still justice in the world.
Thorne cleared his throat, unperturbed. “Sir, the measures to improve the efficiency of the fort are continuing at a commendable pace. I have no doubt the High General is most pleased with our, and your, efforts here.”
“And?” Shin barked impatiently.
Offra dared to grin. But only for a moment, in case someone happened to see him for once.
“I was just wondering if there was anything else you wanted evaluated, sir,” Thorne said, his voice losing just a little bit of its overconfident quality. “Granted, the changes we’re experimenting with now are quite minor and inconsequential . . . really not even requiring your time to glance at them. Perhaps as second in command here I should just look at them for you, allow you to continue taking care of the pressing needs of the fort, while the more mundane items fall to someone like me—”
Offra rolled his eyes. At this rate, Thorne could minimize the entire fort’s defection to the Guarders.
“Is there a point to this endless conversation, Captain?”
Offra rubbed his hands together. Someday, Shin might be worth getting to know.
Thorne faltered under the black stare of the colonel. “Uh, sir, just that . . . if you need anything evaluated, I can do it, sir.”
“Then do it!”
Thorne nodded once and turned to leave the office, neglecting to close the colonel’s door behind him.
Lieutenant Offra stared down at the desk to hide his snigger as Thorne picked up the duty schedules.
“There,” Thorne said as if he had just single-handedly won the Great War, seemingly oblivious that the commander seemed ready to take him out himself. “I told you. I’ll take care of these duty schedules. If Zenos has a problem, he can see me about it.” Thorne trotted purposefully down the stairs.
Offra didn’t exhale until Thorne was at the bottom of the stairs. He glanced over again at the colonel writing furiously at his desk, ink flicking from his quill and speckling the papers on the desk. The man’s quill was as deadly as his sword.
Offra went back to work.
---
Perrin knew what was going on. In the village. At home. In the fort. In his tower. Among his men.
He just had no power to prevent any of it. Like the land tremor that struck, he could do nothing to stop it. All he could do was clench every muscle and wait to ride it out.
Because he had no power.
He was helpless.
He barely was.
---
The next morning a messenger arrived at the tower, and Thorne took the folded parchment from him.
“The colonel is indisposed,” he informed the small man in red. “As second in command, I can take care of this. I see it’s in Chairman Mal’s handwriting. You may not have realized that. But I know his writing, since I’ve have dinner with him many times—”
“It also bears the official stamp of the Administrators and Chairman Mal on it.” The messenger tapped a finger on the oval stamp and sneered at the captain before he headed down the tower stairs.
“Well of course every document has the official mark of the Administrators,” Thorne murmured as he broke open the wax seal. He scowled as he read the message, realizing that this wasn’t a problem that he caused, but one that he was required to help fix.
Lieutenant Radan, who increasingly popped up when the captain least expected it, came up the stairs. “Sirrr—”
Thorne had noticed how Radan dragged out that word longer than necessary, as if trying to prove just how much devotion he had. Instead he sounded like a slurring snake. Nevertheless, Lemuel had been hoping for someone just like him.
“—I noticed the Administrators’ messenger leave. Did he bring us anything interesting?”
Lemuel didn’t like Radan, whose elongated nose and dark brown spiky hair resembled a gawking rat, but the man was more eager to make a name for himself than any of the other soldiers.
Lemuel waved the parchment. “Announcements are coming tomorrow, and the fort is to present them at the amphitheater in the evening. The Administrator of Taxation has decreed what Edge has to repay for all of the food they took. Or rather, that Shin took,” he added in slight annoyance.
“How bad is it?” Radan folded his arms.
“The amounts seem high. Payment ‘with interest’ he’s calling it. Need to send back more than was received.” He sighed. “I suppose it’s up to us to present this in a way that Edgers won’t be upset.”
Radan puffed up his average chest, likely trying to appear as defined as Lemuel. “Well sirrr, that sounds exactly like a job for someone as capable as you.”
Lemuel recognized sniveling talk-ups when he met them. Radan was slightly subordinate, likely hoping to leapfrog over his superiors into a higher position. Lemuel would use Radan as well as the lieutenant intended to use the captain.
“Thank you, Radan,” Thorne said with a slim smile. “I appreciate your support. We can use this opportunity to demonstrate to the village what quality of new officers have come to Edge.”
“What will we say, sirrr?”
Thorne noticed how Radan had slipped himself into that spot on the platform, to be by the captain’s side in full view of the village. It was the posturing game, learned at Command School. There were no official courses taught in it, but the only way to get somewhere was to force yourself there, shoving others out of the way.
Sure, Lemuel thought. Let him. Should things go wrong, I’ll need someone to take the blame.
“We need to run this by the colonel, first,” Thorne reminded.
“Of course, sirrr,” Radan back-stepped. “Naturally, we need the commander’s opinion on everything—”
But Thorne was already gently knocking on the colonel’s door. He heard a grunting sound, and something shuffling on a desk before a muddled, “Come in?” reached his ears.
Asleep again, Lemuel thought with irritation. How can he command when he’s always napping? Good thing I’m here . . .
He opened the door. “Colonel, we’ve received word from Idumea about the repayment structure.”
Shin, bleary-eyed, said, “What are you going on about?”
Thorne took a step closer to the desk, holding out the parchment.
Shin didn’t take it, but continued to rub his cheeks which had the effect of pulling down his eyelids and making his eyes appear even more bloodshot.
Thorne cleared his throat, hoping that might help wake up the colonel. “Administrator Iris has sent a list of what Edge needs to return in Harvest to make up for the amounts you brought back with your caravan.”
“Grain, right?”
“Sir, Iris is willing to accept a number of goods—he’s sending a list—in proportion to the weight of what you took. Grain, but also fruits, vegetables, even beef, pork, and mutton on the hoof.”
Shin now rubbed his tem
ples, and Thorne noticed the commander was in need of a haircut. “All right. What’s to be done?”
Lemuel smiled internally. “We present the list tomorrow night, then create a plan for the village to fulfill the amounts. Iris was under the impression that last season you already had a plan?”
Shin merely grunted. “Maybe. Have to check.” He gestured lazily to a messy stack of notes on a shelf.
No plan would be forthcoming, Thorne noted. But it was an excellent opportunity for an up-and-coming captain. He leaned carefully on to the desk. “Sir, I’d appreciate the opportunity to demonstrate my abilities and knowledge by appropriating this duty—”
“Captain,” Shin interrupted, waving his hand as if coming off a bad batch of mead, “less garrison-speak, more making-sense-speak. We’re miles away from Idumea. Quit talking like them.”
Lemuel stood up, a bit put out. They taught an entire class in how to speak army, and he’d scored higher than anyone else.
“Sir, let me be in charge of the taxation amounts,” he got straight to the point. “Gathering it, sending it—”
“With Zenos,” Shin said, leaning back in his chair and hazily focusing on some distant point. “He knows things. Ask his advice.”
Lemuel was about to say he didn’t need Zenos’s advice, but sensing the colonel didn’t want to talk anymore, he merely nodded. “Thank you, sir,” and shut the door behind him.
Radan’s nose was twitching in anticipation. “So it’s all ours?”
Thorne nodded once. “Yes, it’s all mine. You may assist.” If anything went wrong, he’d need a lackey.
Radan was practically salivating. “I thought I heard Shin mention something about Zenos?”
Thorne shook his head. “Amphitheater work is for officers. The enlisted men are for cleaning up after us.”
---
After dinner Perrin sat dully on the sofa, staring at nothing. But in his head floated bits and pieces of something that exploded, and occasionally he tried to puzzle them back together, unsuccessfully.