“Acknowledged, sir,” Crispin said stiffly.
“Do you think I’m drunk?” Vichuisse said. “I’m not.”
He smelled, indeed, of alcohol, but also of something else, something metallic. Crispin’s skull prickled with fear. How absurd that he, the Lamaroon giant, should be so wary—no, call it what it was, afraid—of the good-looking but distinctly murine little captain. Afraid. Absurd, but true.
“I have two pieces of news for you, my dear fellow,” Vichuisse said. “Curious? The first thing is that we’re being moved to Fostercy Air Base.”
Vichuisse picked something up off the floor that looked like a map of the entire Raw war front, all nine hundred miles of it, folded back to show the Lovoshire Parallel. That brown streak is the Waste, so that must be Shadowtown, Crispin thought—and that, there, must be Pilkinson’s II. Maps were highly classified things: Crispin had only seen one since he was recruited. Yet illiterate, he couldn’t decipher the lettering. Vichuisse’s forefinger indicated a tiny blue star about four inches to the right of Pilkinson’s II. “Fostercy Air Base. Isolated, true, but that’s the point, I believe—I am not told much. You know that in cooperation with Seventy-eight Squadron at Pilkinson’s I, we’re supposed to protect Shadowtown. Well, we’re not doing it well enough. Several ground-strafing forays have gotten through recently. So Commandant Smythe is switching us with Ninety-two Squadron.”
What did this mean? The rain smacked the window hard. The fire crackled. Crispin’s feet were drying out.
Vichuisse shook his head. “Fostercy is not a sought-after assignment, Kateralbin. Ninety-two Squadron was there for eleven years before this switch. We’ll have to do awfully well if we ever want to get moved again. I’m counting on you to boost our tallies, my boy.”
Crispin made a meaningless demurral. Had Vichuisse got him out of bed to tell him something the rest of the squadron would know in a few days?
The tips of Vichuisse’s fingers were steepled together now, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. The metallic smell grew stronger as he leaned back into the embrace of the leather. “I dislike having to bring this up so soon after poor Gerald’s death. But there it is, a captain’s duty. It is, as you know, customary to bring in new appointees from outside whenever a lieutenant is killed, but this time I do not believe it will be necessary. Your crew is already disarrayed, and with the additional trial of the move to Fostercy ahead, I see no need to burden you with an untried leader. So without further ado—get out of that chair, man! Kneel! One has to do these things properly—”
And Vichuisse made Crispin the new lieutenant of what had been Fischer’s crew.
“I will simply have two new regulars sent to Fostercy. Does that sound acceptable, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir,” Crispin breathed, still kneeling.
“I expect you are wondering why I choose you over the others,” Vichuisse said with satisfaction as Crispin levered himself off his knees and sat down, queasily. “You should be aware that it is not just because I find you congenial. It is because you are different.”
That refrain will follow me all the days of my life! Crispin thought through the roaring in his ears.
For a moment Vichuisse seemed discomfited. Then he gave his cackling laugh. “To elaborate would be to violate one of the mysteries of authority.”
“Of course I’m tremendously grateful... whatever your reasoning,” Crispin managed. “I’ll endeavor—to do—my best—to carry on Fischer’s legacy.”
He wanted to punch the wall, to kick the merry little fire into a rain of sparks. Even more he wanted to punch Vichuisse. His heart was pounding. His grief for Fischer had been superseded.
30,000 feet and still a-counting ,
The attack on my plane is steadily mounting
They killed my buddy, but I’m supposed 2 feel nothing
How can I live 4 love?
— The Artist Formerly Known as Prince
Glory
16 Novambar; 1895 A.D. The Raw: Fostercy Air Base
The ecstasies and humiliations of the past had seldom been further from Crispin’s mind as he stood outside Hangar Three with his crew. It was about two in the afternoon, but the cloud cover made the day as dark as if night were falling. The men’s faces were as dark as the sky. An hour ago, along with Festhre’s and Keinze’s crews, they had participated in a total wipeout. Crispin’s crew, fetched from fifteen miles away, had not arrived until the worst was over, and thus had not lost anyone; but Festhre’s crew, though they had fought fearlessly, had lost three men. And Keinze’s had lost four. Including Keinze himself. The oldest of the lieutenants, a year away from his pension, Keinze had been with 80 Squadron since before Vichuisse replaced Esethre as its captain. He, alone among the lieutenants, had been able to influence Vichuisse’s decisions. Silent and cautious, he had kept to himself, holding no grudges against anyone. When he drank he was a different man: no one could tell funnier jokes or play better poker. He had commanded his crew with such efficiency, for so long, that it had been a running joke that he was immortal.
As always, they had been wrong.
Crispin looked around at his men. “We did well,” he said heavily. “A kill for you, Eakin, a kill for you, Cochrane.”
They did not react.
“We incurred minimal damage to materiel. We upheld our name. We’re the number one crew in this squadron, boys—you know that, and I know that. What happened wasn’t our fault.”
He couldn’t allude any more closely to today’s disaster. A lieutenant must never admit failure in front of his men. Crispin forced an upbeat tone.
“Keinze died honorably. He took three of them with him! It’s official. Can you think of a better way to go?”
Reluctantly, they shook their heads.
“What’s with all these long faces I see, then? As far as we were concerned, the engagement was a success. All right?” Crispin smacked his fist into his palm. “All right? We downed two lizards and lost no one! If that isn’t a success, tell me what is!”
“Yes, sir,” they mumbled.
Crispin suppressed a sigh as he looked around at them. Jack Harrowman, tall and lanky, surreptitiously rubbing his injured shoulder, which had healed well, but was still stiff. At his side, Fergus Dupont, a wiry young northerner with prematurely gray hair. Then Harry Potter, a Kingsburg man with a shady past and a face that showed every one of his thirty years. When Crispin was a regular, he had served with those three. When he was made lieutenant, they had accepted him without dissent, and continued to give him their best, as they had given it to Fischer. If they did not love him the way they had loved Fischer, that was understandable; after all, Crispin was still relatively new to his command. What mattered was that he and they trusted each other implicitly. He counted on them to boost the morale of the other two: Tim Cochrane, a southerner who looked far older than his nineteen years, and Sam Eakin, a talented newcomer to the squadron. But all five faces were slack with weariness and frustration. He knew intimately the mixture of euphoria—at having made it home alive, when so many had not—and guilt—over the same thing—that was running in their minds now.
“Go to the barracks,” he finished, knowing he could do no more to stir them. “Debriefing is in one hour. Have your reports ready. You did a marvelous job. Keep your heads up.”
They saluted and turned away. But Potter did not move. “Crispin?”
It was Potter’s privilege, as it was Dupont’s and Harrowman’s, not to call him “Lieutenant.”
“Yes?”
“When are they going to read Keinze’s eulogy?”
“Oh, that’s right, you knew him.” Potter and Keinze, though not of equal rank, nor of the same crew, had been the two oldest men in the squadron; they had survived longer in combat than many new recruits dreamed possible. They had understood each other as few others could. “It might not be until tomorrow,” Crispin said, remembering. “The captain has been closeted with his visitors. He may be too busy.”
“Isn’t that irregular?”
It was, but Crispin felt he owed it to Potter to try and bend the rules for him. “Since he will have such a lot to deal with now, I dare-say it’ll be acceptable.”
“Such a lot to deal with,” Potter echoed.
“Yes.”
They glanced around the hangars. Most of the activity following their return had died down: the injured men and damaged planes had been removed from the runway. But the stillness seemed to boil coldly—as if the air were full of frenetic, invisible activity.
“You wrote Keinze’s eulogy—didn’t you?” Potter said at length.
“Yes,” Crispin said shortly. “With Lieutenant Redmanhey.”
“How long ago—if I may ask?”
“Six months.”
“I see,” Potter said. “Downtime, then. See you in one hour.” He saluted ironically and turned away. An injury sustained at the beginning of his career made him list sideways. Crispin watched him go. Then he started toward Hangar Two. He would have to see that the riggers were giving his crew’s kites due attention. They were so lazy! Sometimes a catastrophe galvanized them, but more often, it worked the other way—not only would they protest that they were working as fast as they could, they would actually slow their pace, as if in defiance of their superiors. Donkeys!
Crispin stood outside the side door, clenching and opening his fists to try to get rid of the after-battle shakes.
“Lieutenant Kateralbin?”
Crispin’s nerves were so taut that he actually yelped and spun around. Fire—
A slopboy. Such as Crispin himself had been at the very beginning.
“The c-c-captain.” The boy was even more nervous than Crispin himself; he must think he had offended him. “The captain requires your p-p-presence in his quarters?”
“Oh, yes,” Crispin said, collecting himself. “Of course.” He nodded sagely. “Dismissed.”
What the hell could Vichuisse want to call him from his affairs on a day like this? As he trudged toward the mess hall, he met Butch coming from the other direction. His eyes were bleary, and he was buttoning the neck of his sweater. He slid his arm around Crispin’s shoulders and thumped him gently. “Heard. Sorry,” he said with uncharacteristic succinctness.
Crispin jerked his head. Butch dropped his arm. “‘S all right.”
“Is it?”
“Didn’t lose anyone. Didn’t get there early enough to.”
“Where?”
“Twenty-two miles southeast, by the front.”
“What happened?”
“Keinze intercepted a whole flight of them on their way to ground-strafe an ordnance dump behind the front lines. He delayed them with three of his men while he sent the other two to find me and Festhre—”
“Four? Against sixteen?”
“Yeah. They were all winged by the time Festhre got there, and all down by the time I did. We couldn’t get many of the bastards, but we delayed them long enough for one of Festhre’s boys to go signal the ordnance dump what was coming. I don’t know how many lizards finally got through. We had to run for home, or we would’ve been daemonsmeat.”
“That’s tough,” Butch said. “It’s all up to the ack-ack gunners in the end, isn’t it?”
“Yup. Sometimes—” Crispin did not finish. He knew Butch knew what he meant. “Queen, I’d like to be in an offensive unit,” he said vehemently.
Butch nodded, but said nothing, his long face set and thoughtful. They had reached the door of Vichuisse’s quarters. “Are you—he didn’t send for you, too?” Crispin said.
Butch said only, “Yeah,” but Crispin, glancing sideways, glimpsed a suppressed smile. They went in. The little, bare entryway smelled exactly as the entryway of Vichuisse’s quarters in Pilkinson’s Air Base II had—stale and somehow older than the rest of the base. Inside the office, the stale smell was worse. Vichuisse and his visitors lounged with their backs to the fire. Two of the officers occupied the only two chairs; Vichuisse himself sat on his clothes chest and the third officer on half an old barrel. The floor was tracked and dirty. Wine bottles lay everywhere like fallen ninepins. On the desk, maps were spread and pinned. The door to the bedroom was closed. Butch and Crispin remained standing. Crispin fought the urge to fidget. The three visitors were looking at them as if they were recalcitrant boys called in for a scolding. “Reporting, sir,” Butch said, and Crispin joined in at the last possible moment.
“Lennox—Figueroa—Duncan.” Vichuisse steepled his fingers. “These are my two best lieutenants, Daniel Keynes”—he pointed—“and Crispin Kateralbin.”
“Honored, sirs,” Butch said immediately, and again Crispin joined in when it was almost too late. What were these men here for? All three must be forty at least. He looked again at the one called Lennox, who was sitting in Vichuisse’s own armchair. Crispin had heard Vichuisse mention him before, with the elaborate casualness that accompanies name-dropping. Captain Lennox? Commandant Lennox?
Figueroa, an elderly man with sallow southern skin, lounging at ease on the half barrel, directed a withering stare at Butch. “Keynes? I thought it was Keinze.”
“Perhaps I was not clear,” Vichuisse replied. His laugh, always something of a cackle, sounded nervous. “This is not Keinze. Keinze was killed today, in that—um—unfortunate engagement of which we were recently notified.”
“An alternate.” Commandant Figueroa pursed his lips. “Keynes.” He said it with distaste. “He had better be good, Tony. You understand that.”
“I certainly do!” Vichuisse laughed nervously again. “Believe me, if he doesn’t come up to par, he’ll have me to reckon with!”
Butch looked paralyzed. Small wonder, Crispin thought. He dreaded the moment when they would turn their attention on him.
“They both seem awfully young,” Lennox said. Though his face was lined and weary, his voice was as light as a boy’s. “Haven’t you others, Tony? Of course, I trust your judgment—and if they’re not good enough, it’ll be on your head, not mine—but... ”
“But young blood is the hottest, isn’t it?” Vichuisse said with another nervous cackle. Both Figueroa and Lennox winced visibly when he trotted out the old maxim. Duncan sat on the straight-backed office chair, his face wooden. Crispin guessed that he was not of equal rank with the others: an aide-de-camp, perhaps. He held a notebook in which he scribbled from time to time with a pencil. “And this,” Vichuisse reached over and patted Crispin’s arm, as if he were a racehorse—“this is one of the best lieutenants I have been privileged to command in all my years leading this squadron. Before joining up, he was a professional daemon handler. He has a way with the regulars that is beyond belief.”
Crispin felt a stab of panic.
“Where does he come from?” To Crispin’s relief, Figueroa did not sound particularly enamored with Vichuisse’s portrait of C
rispin. “Cype? Why is his hair so curly?”
“His mother was a Pacific islander,” Vichuisse explained. “But his temperament hasn’t suffered by it. He’s as Ferupian as they come.”
Pride.
“Are you certain?” Duncan said suddenly.
“Oh, they’ll do, they’ll do, James,” Lennox said. “We didn’t see any flagrant muck-ups in the demonstration yesterday, did we? And this thing today—well... ” Vichuisse seemed to shrink under Lennox’s considering gaze. “I don’t suppose it matters, after all, the paperwork is already complete... ”
“It wasn’t any of our faults.” Crispin heard his own voice before he realized he was speaking. “Butch—Keynes, I mean—wasn’t even there! We lost our very best lieutenant, that was Keinze, because we were spread too thin to get to him in time. It was four against sixteen of them, sirs. It was plain bad luck.”
All four officers looked blank. With a shock of excitement Crispin realized he had surprised them. Then, simultaneously, Figueroa said:
“In war, Lieutenant, nothing can be blamed solely on bad luck.”
And Duncan, speaking for almost the first time, said: “I like an independent spirit, Tony. Perhaps your judgment is not at fault. Theo, you’re right. They’ll do.”
His voice was deep and confident. From the way the three others looked at him when he spoke, Crispin realized he had been wrong: not Lennox, but Duncan, was the highest-ranking of them. He scribbled something in his notes, then rose and shook Crispin’s and Butch’s hands. He was a lanky man, tall for a Ferupian: his eyes were on a level with Crispin’s. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenants. You would probably like to know what’s just happened to your careers.”
Crispin did not dare drop his gaze to Duncan’s decorations, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Butch mouthing: sublieutenant-marshal.
The War in the Waste Page 37
