by Rick Shelley
Lon tried to get back to his feet, but his body would not respond. He had trouble taking in a breath. Inhaling hurt. He looked at his shoulder. The wound did not appear to be all that serious, not nearly as bad as his injuries in the earlier fight. The bullet had merely carved a notch across the outside of his shoulder. It had not gone deep into the joint or broken bone.
Shock. Lon felt himself blink, slowly. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m in shock. That was not good. He squinted, focusing against the rising pain in his shoulder and side, concentrating, trying to force his mind to ignore the injury—injuries—and get back to work.
I can’t just lie here. I’ve got to get up. The fight’s not over. He felt a surge of fear. The image of a rebel coming along and sticking him with a bayonet had run through his mind. Like squashing a bug. I don’t want to die like that.
He managed to turn half onto his side and brought his rifle around and used the weapon as a prop to help him get to his knees and then, after a rest, to his feet. Lon swayed unsteadily, looking for the nearest danger. His vision was blurred. Squinting seemed to help relieve that, but only minimally.
Someone ran at him, rifle and bayonet coming around into line. Lon got his rifle’s muzzle lowered and pulled the trigger, not even certain whether he had a bullet left in the weapon. But it fired, and the rebel went down. The recoil made Lon stagger backward a step and nearly knocked him flat.
“Here, stick with me.” A hand gripped Lon’s arm. He turned his head, blinking again. Corporal Girana. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll manage,” Lon said, though it was an effort.
“Not like that, you won’t,” Girana said. Lon did not see the foot that the corporal swung, knocking his legs out from under him. Tebba caught Lon on the way down, lowered him almost gently to the ground. “Just stay there,” he said. “Use whatever ammo you’ve got left if you have to, but stay down.”
Sure, Lon thought as a wave of dizziness broke over him and flowed past, dissipating. Just sit here and let someone kill me. No way. But neither could he get back up right away. It was not just that Tebba stayed close. When Lon tried to move, the dizziness returned and he had to stop.
I’ll just rest for a minute. Then I’ll be ready, he told himself. He had to squeeze his eyes shut again. The pain in his arm and side was mounting, and the dizziness stayed longer each time it returned. Am I going to faint? That felt … ludicrous. Lon leaned forward, using his rifle as a prop again, bending his head forward, trying to stop the blood from draining away from his brain. I’ve got to stay conscious. I’ve got to stay awake.
The vomit came as a total surprise. Lon scarcely had time to lift his faceplate to let it out. Three wrenching spasms later, he felt weaker—but the last of his vertigo was gone. He spat several times to get the foul taste from his mouth, and thought about trying to get a drink of water to wash out his mouth more thoroughly.
First things first. He looked at his shoulder. It was still bleeding, but not at any great rate. Then he twisted around to look at his left side and saw the long gash there. His battledress shirt was split, and soaked with blood all along the side. Where did that come from? Lon wondered. He needed a moment to recall the encounter in which it had happened. He could not tell if the cut was still bleeding. Blood was certainly not gushing, so no arteries or major veins had been severed. He fumbled at his web belt for the first-aid pouch, uncertain whether the bandage he carried would be sufficient to cover the wound in his side. Find the deepest spot and make sure at least that much is covered, he told himself. Cover as much of it as possible. For the time being, the fighting going on around him completely escaped his notice. He had to concentrate to do anything, and seeing to his injuries was, momentarily, more important. He was scarcely aware of Tebba Girana hovering nearby, making certain that no rebels got to him. And he was certainly not aware that the pace of fighting had slowed—finally. He got the bandage out, unwrapped, and in position over the long cut on his side. The bandage was self-adhesive. Lon would have been unable to tie it in place.
There, that’s done, he thought with relief. He rested for a moment, then started to look around again. He saw that Tebba was still on his feet, then realized that there were no rebels close to them. There was still fighting on the bloody ridge, but it was farther off. From his position on the ground, Lon’s field of view was restricted. He could see only a small portion of the crest. There was no way to tell what the fighting might be like farther away.
Not aware of how slowly he was moving, Lon levered himself up onto one knee and braced himself by leaning against his rifle, the side of his helmet against the forestock. To Lon it seemed to be just a few seconds that he rested that way, not the four minutes it really was. Although no longer dizzy, he still felt weak, unable to collect the energy to move any farther.
Finally stirring himself to the attempt, he used his hands to “crawl” up his rifle, relying on that support until he was—more or less—on his feet, bent over, his hands locked around the muzzle of his rifle, still dependent on that third “leg.” Tears were streaming down his face, unnoticed, at the effort it took to get to his feet and stay there.
Where is the rest of the battalion? Why aren’t they here yet? he asked himself. Slowly he lifted his head, blinking to clear his vision. He wanted to know what was going on around him. For the first time, he had a second to marvel at the fact that he had been unmolested during the time when he had been unable to defend himself.
Two men in DMC battledress were walking toward him, slowly, each holding his rifle in one hand, casually. Lon tried to straighten up, wondering who they were. Behind tinted visors they were anonymous, and nothing about their posture or movement suggested familiarity to Lon.
“Is the fighting over?” Lon asked, lifting his faceplate enough to talk freely. He looked around. Where had Tebba gotten to? Lon did not see him.
“Near enough, I expect.” Lon recognized Sergeant Dendrow’s voice, though he had never heard it sound quite so strained before. “I hope.”
“Tebba was here just a minute ago,” Lon said, looking around again. “I don’t know where he’s gotten to.”
“He’s off tending to the rest of his squad, Nolan,” Dendrow said. “You look like you need some help.”
“I’m okay,” Lon said, nodding very slowly. “I’m okay now.”
“Lieutenant Taiters is dead,” Dendrow said. “He was killed in the last big attack, maybe forty-five minutes ago.”
“No!” Vertigo swirled closer to Lon, poised to reclaim him, threatening his stability.
“I’m afraid so,” Dendrow said. “Captain Molroney too. And a lot of other good men, ours and militia.”
“The battalion got here?” Lon asked, his mind distracted by the fact that the platoon sergeant had said that Taiters had been killed forty-five minutes earlier. It did not seem possible that the fight, and Lon’s efforts to recover from his wounds, could have taken that much time. He sat down suddenly, as if standing had simply become too much of an effort.
“They’re close,” Dendrow said. “Close enough that the rebels attacking us pulled back to concentrate against the rest of our people and the rest of the Norbanker militia. There can’t be more than a dozen or so rebels still up here, and they’ll be accounted for soon.”
Lon looked up, the dizziness gone again. He turned his head, listening to the fighting. “I hear it,” he said, nodding. “Have you heard anything about how that’s going yet?”
Dendrow and the other soldier—who still had not lifted his faceplate or spoken—squatted by Lon. “The colonel thinks that the rebels have put everything they’ve got into this one,” Dendrow said. “It’s a real donnybrook, but there doesn’t look to be any doubt about the outcome.”
“Then we can get on with the training?” Lon started to try to get to his feet again.
“Then we can get on with the training,” Dendrow agreed, moving quickly to catch Nolan as he fell backward. Lon had finally passed out.
2
6
Inchoate nightmares chased each other through Lon’s mind in such rapid succession that he could hold on to nothing of them. There was only a vague realization that they were present, a web from which he was powerless to escape. But neither was he able to grasp pain or discomfort, or sense the duration of his sojourn in limbo. Even when his mind started to climb back toward consciousness, he could hold nothing of what was transpiring inside his head or happening to his body. It was not until he was actually waking that he realized that the experience had not been like the other time. When he opened his eyes and saw that he was not in a trauma tube, he was not surprised. A tube would have prevented most of the mental nonsense.
“How do you feel?”
Lon blinked. It was daylight. The sun was out. He did not recognize the face that was looking down at him. The man was dressed in the work uniform of ship’s crew, the insignia of a medical orderly on his chest. “I’ve felt better,” Lon said, his voice cracking over the words. He tried to clear his throat.
“Here, have a sip of water.” The orderly held Lon’s head up and brought a canteen to his lips, but did not leave it in place long enough to begin to quench Lon’s thirst.
“Not too much,” the orderly said. “You’ve had a rough time. We didn’t have enough trauma tubes to go around, and the ones who were hurt worst had to have priority. All we could do for you was pump in blood bugs and painkillers.
You’ll have to do four hours in a tube on the way home to get rid of the scars and patch up the damage.” He smiled. “Like as not, they’ll schedule you for a night in. That way you won’t miss any duty at all.”
“On the way home? What about the couple of months of training we were supposed to provide?”
“Don’t know about that, mate. Word I had is that this battalion will be going home in a couple of days. Maybe they’re going to have somebody else come in for the training. Or maybe that’s been called off. They don’t tell me everything. I’m lucky if they tell me when it’s time for chow.”
“When can I get back to my mates?”
“Soon as you feel fit enough to get up and walk. Don’t be in any big hurry about it, though. Sit up, have something to eat—if you can stomach food yet—and have a drink or two of water. That’ll go a long way toward making you feel fit. Just don’t push it. Remember, you haven’t had your gig in a tube.”
Lon sat up. There was still a little pain in his left shoulder and side—another reminder that he had not been in a trauma tube—and he still felt short on energy, but there was no hint of dizziness or nausea.
“I guess I’m going to make it then,” he said under his breath. Not like some. Lieutenant Taiters came to mind. I wonder how it happened?
“You’ll make it, in my professional opinion,” the medical orderly said with a short laugh. “I’ll leave this canteen with you. Yours were empty. And I’ve left you a meal pack here as well, straight from ship’s stores, not the battle rations you’ve been living on.”
Lon nodded his thanks and reached for the water. The medical orderly got to his feet. “Take it slow with the water for a bit. You have any problems, there’ll be one of us around. If not, good luck.”
• • •
He ate slowly, savoring each bite as if it had come from a gourmet kitchen instead of ship’s stores, and taking a lot of small sips of water. The water was actually cool, not tepid, like most of the water he had drunk since coming to Norbank.
While he ate, Lon looked around. He was in a valley with at least forty other wounded men. Most were still on their backs. A few were up and eating. All looked the worse for wear. Lon was not certain if the valley was one he had seen before, or just where it was.
The sun was high enough that it left no shadow on the slope to the east, but Lon had to pick up his helmet and look at the timeline to see that it was after ten o’clock in the morning. He put the helmet on after he finished eating and selected the channel that would connect him to Sergeant Dendrow.
“The medicos are turning me loose for now,” Lon said when Dendrow answered his call. “Where do I find you?”
“Don’t try,” the platoon sergeant said. “Just stay put. We’ll pick you up in about twenty minutes.”
“I’m okay now, Sergeant, really. I can make it on my own.”
“Maybe, but save the effort. We’ve just got orders to move back to the capital, and we’ve got to go right past where you’re at to get there.”
Lon chuckled. It was not so much returning humor as simple relief at the prospect of getting back to his unit, his friends. “Okay, I’ll be here. I’ve got nowhere else to go.” There was a temptation to stay on the line, to continue chatting, just for the sake of hearing a familiar voice, but Lon knew that it would not be proper. Nor did he call Corporal Girana or get on that squad’s frequency. The reunion would come almost soon enough. He could wait.
Fortified as much by that as by the food and water he had consumed, Lon felt stronger, better. The pains in his shoulder and side seemed somehow to recede. He got to his feet carefully, testing, waiting for any increase in his discomfort, or a feeling of greater weakness, but neither came. I guess I am going to make it, he conceded.
A few cautious steps reinforced his optimism. No one’s going to have to carry me. He looked around the open-air hospital with a little more attention. Some thirty yards away, one soldier stood guard over several dozen weapons. Lon looked at the ground near where he had been lying. His rifle was not there. The web belt with his pistol—the holster anyway, Lon recalled dropping the handgun on the ground during the battle and he had never had a chance to retrieve it—was also gone.
I guess I’d better see if my rifle got here, at least, Lon thought, starting toward the guard. The soldier looked up as Lon approached, then lifted his visor. Lon did not know his name but recognized the face. He thought the man was from Charlie Company.
“My weapons weren’t with me,” Lon said. Then he identified himself. “I still had a rifle when I was hit last night. The pistol might have been lost before.”
“You remember the serial numbers?” the guard asked.
Lon recited his rifle’s serial number first. The guard pulled his helmet down to scan the list he called up on his head-up display. Then he lifted his visor again and went almost directly to the rifle and pulled it free from the stack. Lon took the weapon, checked to make certain that the safety was on, then pulled the bolt back to see if there was a round in the chamber. There was not. The magazine was empty as well.
“What about the pistol?” the guard asked. “Just in case it was turned in.”
The sidearm was also there, and back in its holster. “That’s more than I expected,” Lon said. “Thanks.” There was no need for him to sign for the weapons. The camera in the guard’s helmet would have recorded the transaction.
“That’s what I’m here for,” the guard said. “That and to make sure nobody comes in and steals them.”
“One question. Just where are we? How far from the hill where we fought last night?”
“You were in the platoon up on the hill?”
Lon nodded. The guard pointed due north. “That’s where you were, right there,” he said. “Top of that hill.”
Lon turned and looked. Nothing about the hill looked familiar from this angle. He could not even see the thicket to the west of it, or Anderson’s Creek. “Looks different now,” he said. “Thanks.” Then he turned and walked away, looking for the rest of the platoon, wondering if it was just third platoon or the whole company—or perhaps the entire battalion—that was heading back to Norbank City.
Lon was sitting under a tree when Alpha Company arrived—walking in loose columns rather than marching. It was shocking to see how shorthanded the company appeared. Maybe it’s not all casualties, Lon thought, trying to reassure himself. Some of them could still be on duty, just not with the rest of the men. But he was not comforted by that possibility.
The company took five minutes, resting while officers
and noncoms checked to see if any of their other wounded were ready to return to duty. Lon felt guilty that he had not even looked around among the other casualties to see if he knew any of them. It had not even crossed his mind.
Third platoon—what was left of it—welcomed him back warmly. There were missing faces. Lieutenant Taiters had not been the only one killed on top of the nameless hill. And there were men who had been shipped back to Long Snake in trauma tubes. Of Lon’s special friends in second squad, only Dean Ericks was missing—and Phip and Janno were both quick to tell Lon that Dean was only wounded, that he had been among the first casualties sent back up to the ship, and that he would be all right. “Probably in better shape than you are, right now,” Phip said, pointing at Lon’s torn and bloody battledress top.
“Is it true that we’re going right back to Dirigent?” Lon asked. “That’s what the medical orderly said he had been told.”
“I guess,” Phip said. “Tebba said we’re all going back to the ship anyway, today or tomorrow. The old man must be calling in someone else to do the training part of the contract.”
Girana came over. He welcomed Lon back, then said, “We’re going home. Delta Company is staying over to handle the training. Tyre is going to stick around to ferry them back to Dirigent afterward.” Tyre was the supply ship that had accompanied Long Snake. Earlier in its career, Tyre had served as a one-company transport. It would not be as comfortable as the larger and newer Long Snake, but it could handle the chore.
“So the rebellion is over?” Lon asked.