The Eternal Front: A Lines of Thunder Novel (Lines of Thunder Universe)

by Walter Blaire

  Eponymous fled to the man’s childhood, usually abundant ground for hiding places. She found scraps of Sethlan’s populous family, but only minor shame and regret. At six years old, Sethlan had felt humiliated and small when his older brothers left for the front and he was left behind.

  So Eponymous shifted to puberty, another wellspring of aversion. Nothing but violence. At the cusp of manhood, these lunatics went on ‘shaping trips’ and sought out other young men to kill. Sethlan and his twin brother had led a group of boys from their mountain hamlet, and laid siege to a family compound in the valley…It had not gone well for Sethlan’s friends.

  On that trip, Sethlan had met a girl. The memories of her were a miasma of desire, euphoria, revulsion, sadness. Eponymous retreated before her review could bring the memories to the forefront of Sethlan’s mind, but then she was back in the open with no other place to hide. She huddled down and camouflaged herself as an annoyance, a nagging sense of deja vu. The searchlight of Sethlan’s attention passed over her, returned, and then shifted away again, like her very own artillery barrage.

  Perched thus on the prow of Sethlan’s mind, too cautious to filter any of the man’s sensorium, Eponymous had no choice but to fully perceive their climb out of the trench into the open air. The no-man’s-land between the trenches was a pitch hell. The shelling had carved piles of dirt into ugly, unlikely shapes that trapped the eyes. In peripheral vision they looked like dying soldiers slowly toppling to the ground.

  Pools of heat shimmered at the bottom of each crater, glowing like core mantle and giving off smoke and sparks. The landscape intermittently bloomed into hill-sized stacks of dirt that fell with majestic slowness to the ground: late-exploding ordinance finally going off.

  When Sethlan glanced back, Eponymous saw the school children peering over the trench parapets. Their faces were a row of porcelain plates above an otherwise invisible ridge of mud.

  All around, the Sheflis regiment filtered through the landscape. Eponymous didn’t know what she had expected, but she heard no rousing shouts or cheers. They moved with professional silence and auspicious ease into the demented terrain.

  Eponymous registered Sethlan’s brief desire to follow the soldiers, but instead, her officer turned directly for the enemy trench. Along the way they lost Diggery, who stepped behind a hillock of dirt and didn’t rejoin on the other side.

  Sethlan was surprised but not because Diggery was gone.

  “You’re with me, Tejj? What about the boy?”

  “So he’s by himself for once. I can’t leave you alone like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re babbling like a blood-fed. Muttering to the air like the dumb twin. I’m wondering if you’ve finally gone mad.”

  “A man can mutter if he wants. And if a man can’t, surely your captain can.”

  Tejj dismissed this with a shrug. “It’s not like you. You’ve never been a circler. Now I wonder if it’s time to put a bullet in you.”

  Eponymous’s attention lurched off the silent progress of the assault. Had she heard Tejj correctly? She couldn’t have.

  “Tejj, you’ll know when I go mad. I have grand plans for it, so don’t shoot me until then. That’s an order, for what it’s worth.”

  Tejj’s answer was lost in the sudden blast of fire.

  ~What’s happening?~

  Contact. Sethlan answered. Earlier contact than expected. The 1424th Hutmoses were probably sneaking up to raid our trenches.

  ~So everything is lost.~

  Of course not. We now have an advantage. Our Sheflis men are in strength, and they’ll roll over the raiding parties. If they don’t turn obstinate, the Southies will fall back to their trench and generate confusion. With any luck, we’ll take the hill before they sort themselves out.

  They passed the hill, which was indeed the loftiest feature of the battle-scarred landscape. Sethlan and Tejj dropped to their stomachs and eased closer to the Southern trenches, putting the hill directly behind them. Confused or not, dark shapes swarmed out of the southern trenches and up the slope. A break in the smoke from the barrage let moonlight through, and the dark shapes resolved into men carrying huge, ungainly rifles.

  ~The hill obviously favors the bad guys,~ Eponymous thought. ~Why haven’t they incorporated the hill into their line?~

  It’s a draw. A conversation starter.

  Eponymous pieced the rest together from Sethlan’s corollary thoughts. Such a hill, taken and held, would be wildly useful to the North. It would force the South to withdraw several hundred yards, creating a palpable bulge in the line.

  Tempting as that hill might seem, it was a poisoned offering. Taking it would lead to all the joys and sorrows of holding a promontory that faced the enemy on three sides. It would give advantage, but generate a huge number of casualties. The Sesseran local command would understand this, but not necessarily the Haphan high command.

  ~That’s very clever, isn’t it?~

  Very clever, Sethlan thought darkly. Then he thought: Am I being outthought again? Right now?

  Sethlan’s mind turned white with effort, a blast of suspicion that questioned everything, even the damp earth under his hands. Eponymous, feeling a little airless suddenly, tried to follow. If the hill was an invitation to the North, the North would examine it. Therefore, the South would be alert for small groups in the vicinity.

  A Southie heavy machine gun coughed to life. It was oddly loud and close, given that the real fighting was on the opposite side of the hill.

  “Were we followed?” Tejj muttered softly behind them.

  Understanding poured through Sethlan like acid. They’ve tricked us again. They’ve fucking tricked us—

  Sethlan lurched forward into a shallow crater. A line of bullets piffed into the dirt where he had been. The bullets embroidered the soil with small ruptures and landslides.

  Then the embroidery moved through Tejj. The young aide gave a surprised yelp and collapsed.

  “Shit, Tejj,” Sethlan said, pulling him into the crater.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry.” The aide rolled onto his back.

  Sethlan crawled over and undid the belt on Tejj’s greatcoat. The boy’s chest was wet with blood.

  ~What the hell is happening?~ Eponymous cried.

  “He’s been shot,” Sethlan said aloud.

  “I won’t question your judgment.” Tejj tried to laugh. “Which my legs won’t move.”

  Sethlan closed Tejj’s jacket and eased him lower into the crater, feet down. He noted how light Tejj felt. For all his officiousness, Tejj was really just a boy. Just a good boy.

  ~Won’t you stop the bleeding?~

  Bleeding isn’t the problem, it’s the holes. He’s a write-off. The jacket will hold his body together longer. He’ll like that.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Tejj said.

  “Sorry isn’t in this, Tejj.”

  “I feel like I’ve been…wasteful.” After a moment, Tejj added, “You know about my family. They would certainly like to hear.”

  Sethlan winced, because the boy was being so proper. “I’ll write your family, Tejj. They’ll have the whole story.”

  “Will you take a confession?”

  “You have nothing to confess.”

  “I know I don’t, la. Still, listen: Remember when you killed everybody with gas?”

  Sethlan’s mouth quirked. “I recollect something about gas, yes.”

  “All the boys were so offended for you. Offended on your behalf. That things should be so shabby for you in the end.”

  Oh, please don’t.

  “Look at me, captain. Open your eyes. This is important. Your dead boys are angry beyond words that you’re using them this way. Talking to yourself. Forgetting your health. Cutting back on your drinking. Pestering the dashta with romantic bullshit! The boys are shocked you’re using their memories to drive this nonsense. They just want to be good memories.”

  “I know.”

  “My uncle went mad
with voices of his own,” Tejj added, weaker. “I don’t know what lies you’re being told, but I know what your boys want to tell you through the fire. Don’t listen to anyone but us.”

  Tejj fell silent. He watched Sethlan as if deciding to say more. Then he stopped breathing.

  Sethlan took a breath.

  Then another.

  He rolled to his hands and knees and continued around the hill. From the very rear, he saw the wood-planked paths that led to the top. They allowed the Southies to make fast progress, probably faster than the Sheflis brigade.

  A hand grasped Sethlan’s ankle, tipping him into a shell hole.

  Eponymous screamed, which sent Sethlan scrambling for his sidearm.

  It was only Diggery. “How’s the heart, old man?”

  Hugely annoyed, Sethlan handed his notebook over and took Diggery’s. “Tejj left service. Be back in the trench when the assault fails.”

  They parted without further conversation. Diggery covered Sethlan’s path, and Sethlan started down Diggery’s.

  ~Is that really all?~ Eponymous finally blurted. ~What about Tejj?~

  Tejj. Sethlan slowed. He’s dead. What else could there be about him?

  ~We’re just leaving him.~

  He’s dead. He’s dead, but we still have our service.

  ~He said he spoke to spirits.~

  His confession. It’s just common dead-talk. Ignore it. I’ve never seen one, no. A Tacchie will complain to his last breath, if he thinks you’ll listen. Forget manners, he’ll say any painful shit he desires.

  Sethlan flipped through several pages of Diggery’s neat hand, blinking fiercely. He reviewed the boy’s path. When he had his bearings, he climbed out of the crater.

  He squirmed through the soil until he reached the other side of the hill. When he stood, Sethlan’s boots crunched on bone. He slowed and studied the ground.

  To Eponymous, it didn’t look much different from the other dirt. Then she picked out fragments of bodies wrapped in fragments of uniforms. Helmets, boots, and jacketed humps of shoulders slowly sinking into the ground. Here and there were the exposed faces and hands of the dead, like white mushrooms in the dark earth.

  Sethlan’s mind supplied more. This was a charnel patch from a failed trench charge. It looked to be a month or more past. The high-water mark of the assault was a line of bodies, face down, with their heads pointed south. Another line of dead lay with their heads back toward the northern trench. These soldiers had been gunned in the back as they fled to safety.

  Shot in the back. That was wrong. That was not done. The South did not do that.

  Sethlan opened his notepad to a fresh page. When he crouched on a mound to write, he felt it shift under his weight. His perch turned out to be a moldering young boy hugging his knees, dead with no visible wounds.

  Sethlan recorded everything he could see of the Southie line. He even spent valuable moments in the exposed position to grub through his pockets for an occlusor. Then he had to wait for another break in the clouds.

  ~You’re sighting off the fucking stars?~

  It’s for the artillery, Sethlan explained. It’s never too late to answer an insult.

  Whistles sounded from the hill. Semaphor flags messaged the Haphan line from the top. The Sheflis brigade had actually carried the hill.

  The Haphan trenches exploded with a roar of supporting fire. The sheet of bullets raced toward Sethlan, a wave of dancing earth. He finally reacted, and leapt into a nearby crater and slid to the bottom.

  Sethlan was not alone.

  A Southern Tachba soldier flickered out of the dark mud. He had something huge and ungainly in his hand—the fluted muzzle of a Southie blunderbuss. He pressed it against Sethlan’s forehead.

  Sethlan told Eponymous to shut the hell up. If they were to be shot it would have happened already.

  Then he followed the gun to the bony hand on the grip, to the arm, and up to the soil-stained face. It was the only way to distinguish the Tachba’s gaunt features from the mud and the dark.

  He’s not carrying equipment, Sethlan observed.

  ~That gigantic fucking gun.~

  Side-arm. He’s a scout. Maybe an Eye, that’s the old term for an Observer. Drops his gear in the trench before he goes over.

  ~Let’s fight him.~

  He’s also a finger of a hand. That’s a Southie squad. I can guarantee the other fingers are nearby.

  ~So what, then?~

  “So what, then?” Sethlan asked aloud.

  10

  Gawarty

  The Sash of Expectancy turned out to be worthless. It was one of the bottles of wine that Jephia had encouraged him to pilfer from the family cellar—a bottle of early harvest Trihome Cabernet—which ultimately bought Gawarty a private booth on the southbound Trench Express.

  It remained private only for the first two days while the train crossed out of High North and into Bechemsa. The industrial Haphan landscape dissipated into a rolling countryside of stony fields and stone-built dwellings. Bechemsa lead to the heavily forested Sheflis, which lead to the well-tended fields of Sessera.

  Gawarty was puzzling over the comparative peace and prosperity through the window when the door to his booth slid open and a round, red face surveyed the seats.

  “Good Lord, it’s Warty! I’d heard you’d been assigned.”

  Gawarty bid farewell to solitude and gestured to the bench across from him. “Calumn. Won’t you sit?”

  “I know I’m intruding but I must accept. The public cars are intolerable; we’re stacked knee-to-chin. They need a special section for corpulent officers like me, with extra room to gesture during enlightened conversation.”

  They made Calumn comfortable and Gawarty retrieved a second bottle of Trihome he’d hung out the window to cool. Calumn provided amiable chatter, which reminded Gawarty that this person had been far from the worst at school. Calumn had even spoken to Gawarty in public, sharing pleasantries if not entire conversations. His family was just elevated enough to hold him above reproach should he interact with a Tawarna, and just low enough to need to curry favor.

  Calumn was too polite to pretend they had been good friends at academy, but he said, “No time for that social nonsense now, is there? Apparently we’re fighting a war. We have a true enemy at the front. Implacable, I’ve heard.”

  Gawarty made a sound of agreement. Calumn coasted through it.

  “So the school commandant actually graduated you! I imagine you landed a plum posting, not really?”

  “It is not the assignment I would have wished. Or so I’m told.”

  “I am sorry to hear this, Warty.” Calumn said, grave. “Perhaps the placement board’s patience extended only to your beautiful older sister. It troubles me how some must work twice as hard, for half the—”

  He broke off at a wild cheer from up the train. They glanced at the door.

  “I’m liaising with the Sesseran intelligence,” Gawarty finally volunteered. “I’m supposed to make it easier for the indigenous Observers and Command to share information.”

  Calumn leaned forward. “Don’t be modest. I heard it’s more than that. It’s one of those new positions! After a hundred years, the order of battle is changing. We’re moving people around, and it’s not just to tuck incompetent dilettantes like myself into meaningless assignments. You’re actually liaising with the Observers! They would not drop a dimwit in that role, no. It’s dangerous and exhilarating in one breath.”

  Gawarty was slightly embarrassed. “Not the glorious assignment we all dream of.”

  “It’s as glorious as it’s likely to get,” Calumn said. There was another loud cheer, and he leaned forward to open the door. “What is that racket, there?”

  “Which it’s a Sessie regiment, being boisterous,” said a porter as he hurried past.

  “Will you instruct them to be quiet?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t, sir. I hear them moving towards us now. Should they overrun this car, a gentleman simply sitt
ing would not be much harmed.”

  With that, the porter charged off. It looked suspiciously like flight.

  Calumn turned to Gawarty. “Did he say ‘would not be much harmed?’ We’re officers!”

  “I have no complaint with not being much harmed,” said Gawarty.

  “Agreed. We should probably hide the wine.”

  They rapidly finished the bottle as the noise peaked. A stampede of footsteps thundered past the booth door, along with snatches of a song. Guttural screams sounded the next car over and did not let up. The screams moved through outrage and into terror. After three agonizing minutes, the screams cut off.

  Gawarty and Calumn were staring at the door when it rolled open again. This time it revealed a huge scarred Tachba wearing the uniform of a Sesseran captain. His chest was covered in line-action ribbons.

  “A seat! La, me!” The Tachba collapsed uninvited onto the bench next to Gawarty and gave them a nod. “A place of peace-la, for to rest the weary foot-meh—or so the song goes. I will hide here with you, else our scrags will have me run the train like a boy with a night song.”

  “What are they on about?” asked Calumn.

  “It’s silly beyond words.” The captain pulled out a cheroot that looked and smelled like fungus. He lit up and blew a jet of smoke right at them. “Some of the younger soldiers can’t sit for more than a few hours. They take to jogging the train. They keep something in sight through the windows. It can be a tree or a hill. They run and run, the whole length of the train, and the hill never draws nearer! We know it’s because the train is moving away from the hill…still, it boggles the mind when you think about it too long. Moving two directions at once! La! Madness!”

  “Of course,” said Calumn automatically, to fill the silence.

  The captain exhaled another stream of smoke and smiled thinly. “I was running with them. We milk-fed are too gentle sometimes, and we can’t let our brethren run alone. That would reveal them as blood-fed—you know, as unsafe cretins. So we all come along.”