They lingered only a minute, and then the general nodded at some shapes emerging from the gloom.
“No…” Sethlan said.
“Yes.” The general’s voice was grim. “It’s the future of our lovely war.”
Coming down the trench were Sesseran schoolboys in knee-shorts, shepherded by a scarred amputee of a teacher. They fluttered past Sethlan and Tawarna in an uneven line, their shaved heads turning this way and that, taking in the unicolor desolation of the eternal front. They were too small and light to stir the debris at the bottom of the trench, and for a moment they appeared to be an illusion of light.
If not for Tejj frozen beside him and Diggery muttering a steady stream of expletives, Sethlan would have thought he was finally starting to circle.
The general watched the children pass, and then followed them up the line. There, the small Haphan-ethnic soldiers grew sparser, until in a final traverse they disappeared altogether.
The first soldier from the Sheflis regiment came into view. He was leaning against the trench wall, his face blank, his eyes raised to the night sky. Sethlan felt a pang in his chest. He could have been one of mine.
The bashful children bunched, then trickled forward. The soldier’s aspect changed when he saw them. “Well, well! Little pieces of my heart, fluttering free. Untouched by the grime of our trenches. What a vision! What a joy! A visit before our outing!”
“South Ville Emsa Military School,” the teacher declared. “Presenting to the 113th on the advent of glory.”
“You bring us joy, teacher,” said the soldier. “Let me present my unit.”
He took a small hand and led them through the trench. They came upon groups of soldiers who startled and then froze when the children appeared. School badges and pins were passed tremulously into their rough hands. The looming attack, when described to the children’s upturned faces, was soon reduced to a sortie, then simple reconnaissance. In fact, it was nothing more than some scouting. You might call it a picnic with some friendly Southie monsters.
By sheer force of cheerfulness, the soldiers eased the earnest worries of the children. The young ones weren’t altogether fooled, however, and they noticed when some of the men absented themselves from earshot of their high voices.
The artillery fire ramped up, and soon both North and South were expending considerable materiel. The ground thrummed with the impact of shells, still distant. The teacher pragmatically spread his children across several traverses, so no single shell could destroy them all.
Small arms fire slapped the trench parados like snapping twigs. The boys screamed with delighted terror when the soldiers pretended to lift them into enemy view.
Between the barrage and the play, the atmosphere degenerated into a diffuse, friendly chaos through which even a Haphan general could navigate without drawing attention.
Tawarna walked the line, slapping backs and shaking the officers’ hands. “High marks on parade drill. Smart turn-out. Crack unit.”
Watching from the side, Diggery spat into the trench gutter. “So we have a nice Haphan Overlord. What bliss.”
Tejj merely hissed at him.
“No, Tejj, he’s playing at being Tachba.” Diggery said. “It’s a pretense. He’s a true-blood Haphan aristocrat. A fucking politician. I know the Haphans. I know them too well. This general is running down a clock, it’s simple policy. He needs trench time before he can sit on some war committee somewhere.”
“Based on the hints he dropped, he wants us to know he attended a Sesseran officer school,” Tejj said. “I didn’t know Haphans did that.”
“You know the biggest hint he dropped?” Diggery nodded at the soldiers. “These dumb boots are being sent to die. Why? So the three of us can witness a few artillery shells. Once we make those imaginary shells official, the Haphans can officially pretend to care about them.”
Sethlan felt annoyed by Diggery’s criticism of the Haphans, but he didn’t let it take hold. Diggery was always galling. Even Tejj merely shrugged, and this exasperated Diggery more than any insult could have. “Why aren’t we seeing this as a colossal waste of manpower? I don’t see how this is a good idea. I just don’t see it.”
“There is no doubt you don’t see it,” Tejj agreed.
“Then explain it to me, if you can,” Diggery snapped. “Explain the waste. Our back-slappy Haphan general can change tonight’s order of battle. Are you telling me a Haphan lord can’t overrule a nest of addled Sessie strategists back in Ville Emsa? Of course he can. But he won’t.”
“Dephram Digalon,” Sethlan finally said, “this is how trench politics work. The general sent his advice up the chain of command and let himself be overruled. His name won’t be on any paperwork resulting from tonight. It won’t be the Haphans wasting these men, it will be local Sesseran command. In the same way, Colonel Goldros’s name won’t be attached to a new Southie artillery shell. Nobody hears a Tachba colonel, but they will hear a Haphan general. Everybody’s hands are washed, everybody stays clean. Basic politics. Diggery, you of all people should know about Haphans. This General Tawarna isn’t a bad one.”
“And that shall suffice,” Tejj said. “Diggery, you are done complaining. That’s an actual order.”
“Well enough,” Diggery said, “but I still hate this shitty war.”
“Believe me,” Tejj said, “the war hates you too.”
General Tawarna collected them on his way back to the bunker.
“We have a half-hour before the barrage really kicks in. I’ll want you in the hole when the joy starts. Wouldn’t do for you to get knocked on the head on the first night of your assignment! Colonel Goldros begged for you for months, even before your surprise with the gas.” He glanced at Sethlan over his shoulder. “If I understand correctly, those children will stay in the trenches until the soldiers launch their assault. In a heavy bombardment. Is that…done?”
“Not in living memory, sir, not in Sessera. It’s old tradition. I guess the teacher learned these soldiers are from Sheflis. Sheflis still holds to some old-fashioned ideas.”
Diggery snorted.
“But what’s the purpose?” the general asked. “Isn’t it a colossal risk of life? I don’t see how it’s a good idea, all that waste.”
Diggery opened his mouth to speak, but Tejj shoved him into the trench wall with two straight arms. Diggery bounced off the sandbags and collapsed to the ground. The general noticed none of it.
“When children fight alongside adults,” Sethlan said, “it’s called excession. When children visit before the fight, it’s called continuance. Continuance gives soldiers a bit of comfort. It reminds them of being young and careless. Then it’s not so hard to climb out of the trench and go South.”
“Mmm-yes, children. I could certainly take more pleasure risking myself against the enemy if there were children behind me.” The general mused for a moment. “I never felt so replaceable as when my wife bore our first child, little Jephia. She was such a joy. Today she’s a terror. Pray you never meet her.”
Sethlan added, “Also, the children need to experience the front. In eight years or less, they will be in service, holding the line.”
Inside the bunker, the general retrieved his cup from his pocket and poured more tea for himself, Semelon, and the two helpies. He provided ever-louder conversation as the shelling escalated.
Tawarna had indeed attended a Sesseran officer school, which he told them was rare to the extreme. He was glad he had, he said, but in two years he had accrued ten years of stigma. He was constantly invited to reaffirm his allegiance to one strategic philosophy or another Haphan birthright doctrine.
Worse, he confided breezily, he wasn’t certain of his allegiance at all! He had to deflect the questions! Sometimes even the basic Haphan strategy—grind the Southies to a standstill with trench warfare—struck him as vacuous and wasteful. It would be the wall for his military career if his aversions were ever made public. On and on. He could share this with Sethlan and the other
Tachba in his command because, frankly, he said, the Haphan leadership would not believe the information if it came off a Tachba tongue.
Diggery watched from the darkest shadow of the bunker, radiating disapproval. Tejj was twitchy, disquieted to hear someone, even a Haphan general, speaking this way of the Haphans.
“You see, to most of your type, captain, the war is up there.” The general gestured to the thunder outside the bunker. “Your war is in attack and defense, food and sleep, blood and gristle. In reality, the largest part of the war is the paperwork. It’s in the generations upon generations of paper-pushers to whom we teach writing and arithmetic.”
General Tawarna noticed Diggery’s shudder.
“Obviously I don’t have to tell your young aide how painful it is for Tachba to learn writing and arithmetic. The lavish torment of it! You won’t believe the number of trained, high-effect Tachba we need to run the war. They’d overflow Ville Emsa…at least twelve divisions in their own strength! Young men filing papers, reading and writing orders, and dreaming up new ways to kill their office mates.” The general paused, but none of his listeners asked after that. “Yes, even the paper pushers have attrition. Once, I actually found myself arguing in the Gray House against a policy recommendation to cut their hamstrings so they’d stop running at each other. I convinced them to institute exercise instead. Spend the energy, I said.”
General Tawarna waved a hand. “Boys, paper is the only thing keeping the Empire safe from your kindred in the South. Pen and paper, and a whip to teach their use. Pray South never learns that trick.”
The general finally ran down when the artillery battle turn serious. The noise redoubled as supporting batteries added themselves to the barrage. The massed artillery guns fired so rapidly they sounded like a roll on a snare drum.
Tejj hovered at Sethlan’s elbow like a proper aide. Diggery, meanwhile, drifted up the stairs to stand by the door. Sethlan understood what the boy felt, but a glance at the general—hunched in his seat, hands over his ears, shoulders shaking—kept him from moving. The bunker swayed like a drunk corporal. Dust streamed through the cracks in the overhead beams. Thache entered the bunker from a side tunnel, witnessed the tea service getting dirty, and swept it into his arms with an explosion of profanity.
An abrupt blast from the trench sent the general’s papers flying. Diggery popped out of the stairway like a cork, landing on the map table. He rolled off, laughing, and held up a bloody palm.
Then Sethlan’s mind thought: ~I didn’t sign up for this.~
In the deafening torment of the barrage, Sethlan listened in his head. Don’t let this be happening. I can’t go insane.
~I didn’t sign up to be atomized by this caveman shit.~
Sethlan jerked to his feet. “Near time to climb up. It’s easing off soon.”
~No! Make like the frigging general, idiot! Curl up and hide!~
Tejj stared at Sethlan without moving. “I give it ten more minutes, sir.”
Sethlan tried to gauge the barrage. He couldn’t focus. A voice in my head!
~Tell Tejj you’re staying here. Send Tejj out alone.~
Sethlan opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He turned to the stairs and climbed them himself. Not all the way, just far enough to peer into the trench. Dust and smoke gave the air a visible dimension, one that was cut through by streams of hissing shrapnel.
The voice would speak again, and soon. Sethlan felt it bubbling under his thoughts.
He drove his mind into a random memory: the soldier’s name for shrapnel. Uncle Nestor, the irritating family member who poked you with bony fingers. Uncle Nestor might be shards of shells, flying nails, grapeshot, chain, wire, even pieces of bone and rock kicked up by an explosion.
Uncle Nestor was not all bad. When a shell landed in your length of trench, if you were fast you could dodge behind a traverse and perhaps survive the shrapnel.
But sometimes the trench traverses were not properly cornered, or they didn’t completely close the path. In those cases, the shrapnel that wasn’t eaten by the sandbag walls went surprisingly far. It became the blistering hot metal scythe with which Uncle Nestor reaped whole squads of men who thought they were safe. If you could see more than ten feet of trench before it turned into a traverse, your trench was not safe.
Sethlan sampled his thoughts. His mind-within-a-mind had gone quiet, as had the barrage, but he knew they would both come back. He wanted to be at the club. He wanted a drink. He’d sit with Captain Cephas and pickle himself. He wanted Nana to tell him he would be alright.
Instead, he called Tejj and Diggery to the stairs. The shelling had relented, even he could sense it, and it was now time to go over.
9
Eponymous
“I didn’t sign up for this,” Eponymous screamed.
Her lunatic host, Sethlan, hardly seemed to notice the barrage. He was waiting out the barrage, sitting like a mannequin in a store window when he should have been one long continuous flinch.
Eponymous was of half a mind to curl into a ball like the general. She also had another instinct, much stronger, to run like a madwoman into the flaming sheets of death in the trench.
Half a mind was right. Now that it mattered, Eponymous found she had been issued no override authority over the meat that contained her. She couldn’t run for deeper cover. She wasn’t going anywhere until Sethlan damn well decided it was time to move. Her fate was tied to this stranger, and it was an ugly, out-of-control feeling.
The annoying Diggery boy re-lit the bunker’s lantern after the near miss. In the guttering light, he calmly dug a piece of metal the size of a belt buckle out of the palm in his hand. The wound was appalling, but Diggery seemed more amused than concerned. He spat on his palm, pinched the skin together, and left it at that.
Madness.
Eponymous sampled Sethlan’s mind:
Why am I hearing voices in my head? Don’t let this be happening. I can’t go insane. Am I circling? I cannot circle in front of this imperial. We can be trusted, we are not weak. Service. Oh, why won’t Diggery just sit still?
The shelling coursed over their bunker, pounded into the distance, and then walked back to them as if it somehow smelled Eponymous’s fear. It crashed around the bunker, groping for the four little lives in the dirt.
~I didn’t sign up to be atomized by this caveman shit!~
“Near time to climb up.” Sethlan said. “It’s easing off soon.”
~No! Make like the frigging general, idiot!~ Eponymous yelled. ~Curl up and hide!~
Tejj had the right idea, bless him. He made no move for the stairway. “I give it ten more minutes, sir.”
For a brutal moment, Sethlan wavered. He would either wait with Tejj, or rush into the firestorm. Eponymous directed a strong thought at him: ~Tell Tejj you’re staying here. Send Tejj out alone.~
Though it hadn’t been her intent, the idea at least shamed Sethlan into thoughtfulness. The man’s interior thoughts ran at a fast clip.
I destroyed my whole unit. I collapsed between the lines. Was it really the gas, or was I already circling? Did I do everything I could? Why can’t I be indifferent, like a regular Tacchie? Why must I dwell on fear and death and loss?
Sethlan stepped to the stairway under rigid control. Shrapnel shrieked through the trench like angry spirits released from the afterlife.
Visible shockwaves expanded and intersected, muffling each other out. They looked like fast-blooming flower-beds, or fireworks composed of dust. Sethlan called them airless mushrooms in his thoughts: blast overpressure fronts that slammed from every direction, sculpting the dust into mesmerizing, dream-like shapes. Lethal. Soldiers caught in these blasts either burst instantaneously or collapsed to the ground still thinking, with collapsed lungs.
Eponymous fought for calm, worried she might accidentally tip Sethlan over the edge. Luckily Sethlan helped by biting ruthlessly down on his concern like he was removing a loose flap of tongue. Revealing a surprising level of clarity
and executive control, the captain ignored his anxiety and lectured himself about shrapnel. In Sethlan’s mind, the effects of shrapnel were conflated with some type of half-believed angry spirit. Uncle Nestor.
Eponymous asked, ~Then how will those school children survive, much less the soldiers?~
Holes in the walls, Sethlan answered. Bunkers like this. Sheer innocent open-eyed willingness to live. That, and the shelling is never quite so bad when you’re in it, than when you’re watching from the bottom of a stairway. In that way, it’s the same as rainfall.
“It’s leaving off,” Sethlan announced out loud.
Followed by his aides, he climbed into the trench, which had been battered out of shape. They now stood in something that was more drainage ditch than fortification. While the men reconfigured their gear, dropping most of it on the ground, Eponymous sampled Sethlan’s thoughts.
She always finds a way to touch my cheek. She doesn’t touch the cheeks of any other officer at the club.
Nana. Eponymous welcomed the distraction and floated alongside Sethlan’s thoughts.
In Eponymous’s checkered career, she’d come across many people like her, and not just women. Every culture had people like these, the ones who point the young men toward death and war, and then stay behind. The politicians, the preachers, the schoolteachers, the pretty girls. Nana was so effective, so absorbing, it had to be training. It probably helped that the girl was so very watchable. She hit the eyes like fireworks in a closet—
What the hell? Sethlan’s conscious mind shined with irritation. Now I’m mooning over the dashta? The eternal front demands our attention. How the fuck are these corrosive thoughts getting into my head?
Eponymous watched, appalled, as Sethlan’s mind actually turned inward to search. She scrabbled to shore up a wall between them, but found little useful material. Sethlan had no meaningful aversions or phobias. Every fear was rational and strongly situational. Even the gas attack that had destroyed his unit was only a minor distraction to his waking mind.
The Eternal Front: A Lines of Thunder Novel (Lines of Thunder Universe) Page 8
