Four hours remained before twilight when the latest exercise ended. With enough time to run another assault, Tanavuna walked to the foot of the hill where Cutter stood, and with obvious reluctance asked if the captain wanted them to do it again. Just because he’d lived his entire life under R’Bak’s brutal sun didn’t mean he liked being out in it all day, every day, particularly as the approach of the Sear began turning the surface into an oven.
“No, no more training,” Cutter said to Tanavuna’s relief. “The men are ready. Bring them in.”
Cutter came down from the hill and motioned for his men to gather around. Forgetting their fatigue, it only took minutes for the forty-seven members of his platoon to circle him. “Pack up, boys,” he called out. Within their culture, calling them boys could be considered an insult, but Cutter had explained that where he came from it was a term of endearment, and they accepted it. “Major Moorefield is moving on Imsurmik the day after tomorrow. We’ll march east tonight, hole up during the hottest part of the day, and then get you home. We’ll camp outside the village, but I can give you three hours to see your families and make some babies.”
They laughed, both at the accuracy of Cutter’s words and with pleasure that the training was over. He’d seen it in 1944 and now again two hundred years later: the relief of finally moving toward engaging the enemy.
If only they knew what awaited them.
Life on R’Bak had more than its share of violence, but tribal warfare and blood feuds were a far cry from combat against an organized enemy who wanted you dead. And, despite Murphy’s assurances otherwise, Cutter assumed that was exactly what the militias in Imsurmik wanted, to kill them all. If they turned out to be the disorganized amateurs that Murphy and Moorefield said they were, fine, but as a combat commander, he had to plan as though they were R’Bak’s version of the Waffen-SS.
The men always moved fast at night, being the preferred time of travel during the hottest season. Now, after six months of intense physical training, they maintained a pace double that of before, while Cutter rode a whinaalani at the head of the group. Some of the men flanked the column at a distance of three hundred yards as a tripwire-skirmish line. The rest either marched in column or led the other whinnies being used as pack animals.
They moved fast and arrived at their camp west of the village just as night fell. Cutter made them delay rushing home to their families until everything was staged so they could pull out at dawn. He ordered them to be back in camp three hours later, and, except for one man, they were. Fifteen minutes later, they were in their sleeping rolls, dozing. Or trying to.
The locals called their village of six hundred people Nuthhurfipiko, which in their dialect meant “near the dry brown hill.” Cutter wasn’t sure how it got that name, since the hill had dots of trees and scrub greenery over most of its slopes. As he lay staring at the unfamiliar stars, he could hear the river nearby, and the illogic of the name kept his mind racing. The hill was neither brown nor particularly dry, but as he’d learned in France, place names didn’t always make sense. He mentally dubbed it Nuther.
Even with the sun down, he felt sweat trickle down his neck and sides, so maybe Nuther got its name during the last Sear, or the one before that, or the one before that. As hard as it might be to imagine, supposedly it got much hotter when the two suns blasted the planet’s surface like a flame-thrower, so he could see the hill turning brown under all that heat. Too bad it didn’t kill off the stinging insects, too.
Snoring nearby was a reassuring memory of the men he’d led in France, every one of whom he’d trusted with his life. Cutter felt the same way about the R’Baku of Nuther. The new platoon had been training for six months, but as much as he wanted to believe that his new men would react in battle like the old ones, that could only be verified when the shooting started.
He should have been exhausted, and physically he was, but his mind wouldn’t shut off. Instead, it kept repeating the same scenes over and over again, until he thought it would drive him mad. Eventually he dozed off.
Dawn was still an hour away when distant gunfire interrupted the already brief R’Bak night and woke him. Momentarily disoriented, he sat up shouting, “Take cover, Krauts!” in English. A lean indig man ran over to him, squatting close enough for Cutter to see his face. It wasn’t his second-in-command, Lieutenant Tanavuna, but Sergeant Riidono.
“Lieutenant Cutter,” the non-com said. “Come! We must hurry. Our village is being attacked!”
“By who?” Cutter asked, pushing to his feet. He’d slept fully clothed and needed only to pull on his boots and grab the Thompson before following Riidono across the hill at a run. They’d camped two miles from the western terminus of the ridge, close to the village but out of sight behind its crest. Nuther lay on a lower slope, closer to the river but far enough upland to avoid the occasional floods. Driven by fear for their friends and loved ones, his men sped over the ridge toward their homes, with Cutter stumbling after them as he shook off the effects of sleep. Normally he came instantly awake at the first sign of danger, but fatigue and the illusion of security had allowed him to slip into a deeper sleep than usual. Now, as they neared the top, Cutter knew the red glow ahead meant that his men’s homes were on fire. Despite the risk of tripping in the semidarkness, he ran faster.
From the ridge top, he saw flames licking out the windows and doorways of every home. Although built mostly of stone, the doors and roofs tended to be animal hides stretched over wood frames, both of which burned fast and hot. Cutter got there after his men had saved the ones they could. Smoking bodies lay strewn about, with people dousing them in water retrieved from the river.
Mothers wailed for their dead children, children for their dead mothers, and Cutter’s men went berserk at seeing their families cut down. Calls for the healers exceeded their numbers so he pitched in wherever he could. Within minutes, Cutter’s hands were bloody after applying pressure to a gut-shot girl, but the wound proved fatal. As death settled over her, Cutter watched her young face relax to something approaching peace.
Most of those still alive had been hiding in the huts when the raiders set them ablaze, and there was little Cutter could do for them. Battlefield first aid only went so far in treating burns, and with no medics, morphine, or first aid kits, he could only do what he’d learned back on Earth. Mainly that consisted of ripping cloth strips from robes and shirts, wetting them from a jug of water he found near a hut, and keeping their wounds moist. Tanavuna’s wife, the village’s most revered healer, was nowhere in sight.
Over the screams of the injured and crackling of flames, Cutter heard angry yells coming from the western end of the village where a cluster of his soldiers had surrounded a man lying on the ground. Cutter flashed back to a day in late June, 1944, when his platoon moved into an open field surrounded by bocage and a German MG 42 cut one of them nearly in half. The machine gun’s loader took a BAR round in the forehead, but his men captured the gunner and kicked him to death. They hated the MG 42—“Hitler’s Buzzsaw”—and, by extension, the men who operated it.
Cutter could have stopped them back then. The German’s terrified face still haunted his dreams; his soldbuch gave his age as sixteen. He’d been a scared boy, drafted and stuck in the front lines. Just a kid who’d fought for his country. Worse, once the immediate hatred wore off, guilt at what they’d done tormented some of his men.
Cutter wouldn’t let that happen again. He sprinted over to the group, pushed them away, and confronted his XO, Lieutenant Tanavuna, who was standing over the man pointing an M14 at his head. In the flickering firelight, he could see the white paint on his face.
“Stand down, Lieutenant!”
Tanavuna’s glare made clearer than words that Cutter was an outsider. “Do you not see what they have done?” he asked, the rifle shaking as his hand trembled with rage. Cutter feared he’d squeeze off a round without meaning to, and, with all of the stones littering the area, a ricochet was entirely possible. “They took m
y wife, Cutter; they stole her and slaughtered my people! They killed my father, and now I am hetman. I decide on justice against those who injure my people! Do you understand that? It has nothing to do with you or your mission; this is about the people of Nuthhurfipiko. Leave us be!”
“Listen to me—”
Tanavuna swung the gun to point at Cutter’s nose, the barrel less than two feet from his face. No sanity softened the indig’s face, and the trembling of his body increased. The other men stepped back, while the ones behind him moved to either side.
“Klooannii caught him assaulting Dristtaluppu with a knife at her throat. She was a young mother, and they killed her child! When Klooannii found them, this man thrust his blade into Dristtaluppu’s neck. And now you wish me to spare such filth?”
Even in the semidarkness of the new dawn, Cutter saw terror in the raider’s eyes, a silent plea for mercy and hope that the newcomer with the strange accent might save his life.
“Killing me won’t bring the mother back, Lieutenant Tanavuna, nor her child.”
“You would spare him?”
“I would question him. You say they took your wife?”
That refocused the distraught indig leader and began the process of restoring logical thought, even analysis. “Yes, Kesteluni is gone. We must go after her.” His men cheered and waved their rifles.
“We will—”
“Each moment takes them further away; we must go now! If we do not, they—”
“Do not interrupt me again, Lieutenant!” Cutter roared, intentionally yelling louder than necessary to stop the rising mob reaction. It could have caused Tanavuna to pull the trigger, but that didn’t bother him. He’d stopped fearing death the moment he’d awakened on the SpinDog habitat. What did bother him also surprised him: retaining control of his platoon. Because now they were his platoon, every bit as much as his men in Normandy had been. Staring into the muzzle, he grabbed it and pulled it against his forehead. “Shoot me now or obey my orders, Lieutenant. The choice is yours. So are the consequences.”
The captured raider held his hands in front of his face, his terror obvious.
“I must go after them, Captain Cutter. Don’t you understand that? I must!”
“Of course you must, but not alone, and not without a plan. And your people are suffering while we stand here yelling at each other. Let’s question this man and tend to your people, then we can pursue them with a real chance of getting Kesteluni back. She showed me hospitality and kindness, and I will help you save her if I can. As it is, you don’t even know who the attackers were.”
“We know, sir,” said Sergeant Riidono. Using the tip of his rifle, he jabbed the prisoner in his right cheek. “Only those who serve the F’ahdn of Imsurmik may wear white face paint as part of the J’Stull guard. These purple stripes on his cheeks mark him as coming from a tribe loyal to the satrap, and through the satrap, the F’ahdn. Others wear blue, red, or green paint, or combinations of those colors. He would wear his tribe’s purple, unless aiding the J’Stull. Then he could wear nothing but white.”
Cutter nodded. The whole paint issue had befuddled him from the start. He understood its protection against UV, but the intricacies of the patterns and symbols were beyond him. Thank God his men used clothing for the same purpose.
Without meaning to, Riidono gave him the distraction he’d needed. Ignoring the steel touching his head, Cutter knelt, grabbed the prisoner’s throat with his left hand, and pushed the barrel of the Thompson under his chin with the right.
“What’s your name?”
“Hisnatandu, my lord.”
“I’m not your lord; I’m your enemy. I’m also the only reason you’re still alive. Tell me why you attacked this place.”
The man stammered and couldn’t get the words out. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths and then spoke. “Please don’t kill me. Please! I have a family.”
“So did the woman you murdered. Now answer my question.”
“The F’ahdn’s yuzbazzi, Zeesar, gave the order.”
Cutter glanced up at Riidono. “What does yuzbazzi mean?”
“It means someone you trust to carry out your orders,” answered Tanavuna, once again engaged in the present. “Someone who will do bad things, if you ask them. But I have met Zeesar, and this attack does not seem like some-thing he would do, even if he could.”
Good, he’s back to using the logical part of his brain.
“A hatchet-man,” Cutter said. “That’s what we called such a one. Why don’t you think it was this Zeesar?”
“Zeesar is a militia leader. He is the yuzbazzi; yes, that is true. But Subitorni commands the J’Stull guards of Imsurmik. I do not believe Subitorni would allow Zeesar to give orders to his J’Stull.”
“What about that?” Cutter said, poking the terrified man lying in the dirt.
“I know nothing of such things, my lord; please do not hurt me. I am from the village of Murri. The J’Stull commander, Subitorni, ordered us to come here with his men to punish those who are disloyal to the F’ahdn. I heard some of them whispering about a healer, Kestel-something, I could not hear the rest—”
“Kesteluni!” Tanavuna said.
“Ssshhh,” Cutter said, hoping the sound translated to the same thing on R’Bak as it did on Earth. To the prisoner, he said, “Continue. Imsurmik isn’t far away; why would he order this done now?”
“I know not!” the man squeaked.
But Cutter had interrogated enough Germans to know when a prisoner was lying. “You get one last chance to tell me the truth, before I let them have you.”
“No! I only know the rumors.”
Cutter nudged his throat with the sub-machine gun. “I’m listening.”
“It is said the F’ahdn suffers from the Bleeding Black on his face. I know a woman who attends his household, a masker; she told me that the F’ahdn blamed her for his affliction, accusing her of not painting his face correctly. If it cannot be cured, she will pay with her life.”
Once again, Cutter gave Tanavuna a questioning look. “Bleeding Black?”
Tanavuna answered, “I have told you of this, Captain. It is the reason we wrap our faces and others apply paint. The sun burns and darkens us all. But sometimes, it turns smaller spots black and they often bleed. Cutting off a limb may stop the spread, but often does not. There are treatments using plants that sometimes work, and Kesteluni is known to have succeeded many times in curing the Bleeding Black. People come long distances to be healed by her. If the F’ahdn has it, he will die unless she can save him.”
“It sounds like something we called skin cancer,” Cutter said. “But I don’t understand why he sent a raiding party instead of just asking her for help.”
“It is not his way,” Tanavuna said. “He does not ask for help; he requires it from those under his so-called protection—the ones who share their harvests so he does not destroy them. We have resisted those demands.”
“He asked—demanded—your wife treat him?”
“No, she would not have turned him down, whether he asked or demanded. She would have attended him. He must not have been willing to take the chance. The F’ahdn is a prideful man. And vain.”
“Will he release her once she treats him?”
Tanavuna shook his head.
“So he’s just another bully. I know all about those.”
Cutter stood, his knees aching, and stepped back. As his platoon watched, he brought up the Thompson and squeezed the trigger when the muzzle came level with the prisoner’s forehead. The man jerked a few seconds as neurons fired after brain death and then went limp.
“The vengeance was mine!” Tanavuna cried out.
“Killing a defenseless man is not something you ever forget. The faces of the men I’ve killed already keep me awake at night. I spared you those nightmares. For me, one more won’t make any difference.”
Cutter turned back toward their camp, only to find a knot of people kneeling beside someone dead in
the dirt. Once he was close enough for the growing light to reveal details, Cutter saw it was his missing soldier. They hadn’t even gotten into combat and he’d already lost a man.
* * * * *
Chapter 6
Imsurmik
Under the dangerous light of R’Bak’s approaching Sear, only white clothing made sense, with “white” being relative. The common people wore thin, cheaply woven robes that might once have been considered white but had long since become a pattern of muddy browns after years of sweat and dust. Most couldn’t afford extra clothing, and, even in the cooler years, washing was a luxurious waste of time and water. The custom of face painting had evolved, which had even reached the court of the F’ahdn, where nobles and hangers-on seeking their ruler’s favor each had their own unique design.
In contrast to the worn garments typical in the Outer City, Yukannak’s robe shone in the sunlight that came in through a high window. He remained motionless and aloof as his face was painted. As the satrap’s silci to the F’ahdn of Imsurmik, he needed to project the power and authority of his master. That meant he’d been able, in advance of his visit, to commission the city’s most skilled weavers to fashion his robes using their best cloth and to have cobblers make him several pairs of the peculiar local boots. Held tight by strap-over ties, their heavy soles allowed for easy travel on hard surfaces like the city streets, as well as the rocky outlying areas.
To further signify his importance, Yukannak had ordered red and blue stitching along the hems and collars of the robes and embossed scrollwork on the boots. Such extravagances showed he could afford flourishes beyond the reach of common people, as befit a man of his stature. Brand new and never worn, these richly adorned garments spoke of wealth even more than did his paint.
Inspecting his reflection in a burnished disc of steel, he turned his face from side to side to make certain the mask of intricately painted lines and geometric shapes maintained its symmetry in all respects. He wasn’t sure how the fashion had evolved in Imsurmik and a few other cities, since most people of the region relied on too-thin clothing and facial coverings to ward off skin damage from the harsh suns, but he was glad it had. Facial coverings and such were considered rude by the upper class, suited only to the primitive villagers and farmers. Paint colors and designs also marked distinctions—often subtle—between the classes. The cost of some colors, such as the gold and silver so prominent on Yukannak’s face, was more than most commoners earned in a year. The white on Subitorni’s J’Stull guards wasn’t as expensive as his colors, but it wasn’t cheap, either.
Shadows Page 4