“Marshal, we need to raise our defense levels to the highest preparedness and institute draft proceedings immediately. We have to assume Tanith is also under imminent threat.”
“Raise the defense levels, yes; but don’t announce anything here. You think a draft is necessary at this point? Isn’t that premature? We weren’t attacked.”
“Marshal, you have diplomats from all over the world here. Don’t you think-“
“We don’t want a gaggle of ambassadors making panicked calls home. We’re walled up tight here. What about that draft – what are you thinking?”
“It will take time to staff up a response. We’ll be calling up trained militia; but they have to be deployed.” Another one of the ministers had answered here, scooting in his seat closer and already with beads of sweat stuck to his temples and cheeks.
“A response? We weren’t attacked. To whom would you be responding?”
“Whoever! We can’t dither on this. It takes time to get things moving.”
“One of you tell me what we do know!”
“Balcister was blasted away this morning, taking a city block with it. Thousands are dead. The entire city is paralyzed – fires are breaking out in other areas which may be related. One rumor is that the Red Witch were responsible and have infiltrated Alson.”
Cassian sharply turned to observe the night-black face of his own Red Witch body guard towering from the sideline observing the seated crowds, armored and cloaked in a duster. Those watching him didn’t have what it would have taken to ask the nightmare to step out of earshot.
“One early report was that Wentic caused the blast himself.”
Cassian was grimacing, soon to react to this last bit of chatter when a uniformed woman trotted up from the aisle and squatted near him.
“Marshal, the razor and claw squadrons are deployed.”
“Eh? Deployed where?”
“Encircling patrols along Tanith’s perimeter, Marshal. In accordance with defense protocols.”
“What are their rules of engagement?”
“Marshal, are we going to issue the draft? There really isn’t time to form an investigative committee or waffle on who our real enemies are.”
“You’ll answer my question or be relieved. What are the fleets’ rules of engagement? I can’t have any more misunderstandings with Alson when their own people are out for blood.”
“Fire if fired on – what else would they be?” The pig-faced man answered too quickly, betraying what sounded like a guess, which Cassian apparently sensed.
“You know that to be a fact, or you’re assuming those are the rules of engagement? Be straight with me!”
“Fire if fired on. You’re looking for problems where there aren’t any.” The chubby fellow shifted in his seat and bore a disgusted expression for want of more decisive action from his leader. “We need to staff up a response quickly. Issue the order for a draft.”
“Marshal, this could be another assault from the Rauchka brigadier.”
“I can recite a list of possibilities too. It would be more helpful to have some sort of real intelligence. Don’t we have people watching these sorts of things?”
“What does it matter who did it? Defend the nation and strike on Alson now while they’re weak.”
Cassian went quiet at that and looked at the short squat fellow who’d said it. This was a different strategy altogether from what he’d been thinking, or maybe at least he was glad someone else had said it first.
One minister agreed, “That’s absolutely right. We have an advantage at this point. It turns things in our favor where they haven’t been. We owe them; and it’s time for a reckoning.”
“They’re filth; and they deserve it.” The bland mumble of a group rose up in agreement.
Another of his counsel, the one who’d scooted in last, raised his voice beyond the theater whisper for which the setting called, “Look, your people need decisive action now. This mess with the Brigadier has cost us loyalty in the provinces. There are at least fifteen petty groups surrounding us smelling blood at any sluggishness we show. Alson was weak, so they were hit. We have to be strong.”
The pig-faced man in his passion sat a little straighter, “You keep me around to tell you the truth; and this is it. I’d like to just get along too; but it’s not the world we live in. It’s not. We need to do something quickly and with overwhelming force before we are ourselves attacked with some monstrous tathlum abomination which we can’t begin to counter. They’re going to blame us – count on it.“
The War Marshal looked to the orange sun, then towards the caparisoned platform. The lanky and wrinkled event reader had completed his flourish; and one of the commanders was recounting the history of his vessel’s namesake. The junior commander stood in waiting for his turn, to be followed soon by a silent drill routine of carbines. It was a serene and out of touch with careening events beyond this echoing craneyard; and it is almost a certainty he was thinking of his trusted friend, Grebel.
Cassian addressed the woman who’d announced the fleet launches, “And what do you think?”
She was young and not expecting a direct address but rather likely a dismissal. Her red-streaked hair was a tight bun, her chin long and with slight wrinkles under her eyes. The other men were equally taken by this turn and looked at her uncertainly. Here was a woman, however, who wasn’t at all uncomfortable with being asked for an opinion; and it was possible the fury of world conflict raged in waiting for her answer. She brushed a finger against one of her ochre eyebrows and looked him boldly in his eyes.
“We have every reason to believe Alson has been prepping an assault on us for some time.” She leaned toward him, gaining in confidence.
“We know they are developing mass-casualty weapons the existence of which they deny. And they have aggressively forged alliances and treaties throughout the world in an accelerating and hostile fashion. Now that they have been wounded, Alson will be looking for all-out war with someone; and we will be blamed for what has happened to them. I don’t see any other outcome. It is naïve to think we could somehow offer assistance or even just remain silent and not be drawn into whatever is to be their response. If there is any leverage at all in our hands, we must use it decisively. It’s what your father would have done.”
Cassian only nodded softly and scooted his chair to face directly forward, the legs scraping roughly against polymeric concrete. It was awkwardly still in the small group, their privacy somewhat cracking as many near them were being distracted. The woman eventually stood to pop her stiff knees, milled near for a moment, then drifted back to an empty seat several rows back for want of a better way forward. The advisors tried to re-engage the War Marshal in the details of what came next; but he held up his finger to sign against it. In fact, the tight line of ceremonial soldiers was arrayed with carbines held high in salute when next he spoke.
“This next bit is my favorite. Very stirring.”
A hunched old woman hobbled across the platform leaning on her walking stick. At the very moment her feet first tapped the stage, a thousand sailors formerly at parade rest came to attention in a snap of incredible precision. She was the haggard sister to old man Talgo, aunt to the ruling brothers and a woman who’d christened hundreds of war vessels. Her gait was ginger and unsteady, slow like a stalking cat. Those watching were in thrall or awe, some sensation driving silence and respect. When she reached the centerpiece flagstand, framed by the two officers, her cracked voice rang out clearly like a bronze bell.
“Soldiers and sailors of the flats…”Twenty soldiers lifted higher their forearms as one.
“…man our defender and bring her to life!” In response, twenty carbines fired blinding sun-yellow spheres into the sky, saluting her and the new arsenal ship before them. On cue, long clean lines of the crewmembers jogged down the aisles filling the massive warship at all the gangways. Shortly, the lifeless and still vessel began to buzz and whirl with activity as every device or instrument,
every machine and engine was engaged to simulate the breathing of life into the ship. Hoses fired fountains into the air as weapons systems spun madly. Lights bathed the vessel in dazzling arrays. Eventually, several of the crew became visible through portholes and on higher decks, hurried in vigorous motion. Those in the audience stood in applause as the pennant representing Tanith rose along a cable in proud display.
Cassian stood along with everyone else, shaking hands and nodding to acknowledge congratulations. He watched carefully, methodically, as Nanny Talgo was helped off the platform by the commanders; and the crowd stirred like brushed bees once she stepped to the side of the platform hidden from general view. The commissioning was complete. The arsenal ship was a new concept in Tanith war planning, architected as the centerpiece in flatrunner and ramship battlegroups. Armed with overwhelming firepower, it climaxed a vision of short and decisive battles.
“Rosgrove, find my son and prep a runner to take me to him. As I understand it, he’s returning from Denai.”
“Out of the question!”
“War Marshal, you aren’t going anywhere except to the government house. There is a prepared speech we’ll customize; and the people will need to hear it from you. Certainly if there’s to be an attack on us, you’re the first target. We’ll bring your son here.” Many of them, including Cassian, looked suddenly as if the man who’d suggested bringing in Cyprian were instead suggesting they all build a campfire and sing.
“Where’s Grebel?” Cassian’s eyes squinted in his irritation.
“What does he matter, War Marshal? We can send somebody out for him; but he’s likely passed out in a dumpster somewhere!”
It was actually a critical moment in retrospect, though none right then would have noticed, that Cassian’s eyes fell on his old, limping aunt being helped down a small flagged stairway.
There was a time of which anyone interested in Cassian would have read wherein he as a very young boy had found a young shenna abandoned by its mother and crying for water outside his window. He’d squirreled it away from the sight of his teasing brother in a canvas satchel of sketchbooks and pastels. The tiny beast made squeaks of delight whenever it saw him; and it often would slip its silver head over the lip of the satchel to watch him arrange and rearrange his chalks till he was satisfied with crisp right angles in their layout. Incredibly, he would patiently straighten the chalks should the little creature bump against them to sustain regularity, though this wasn’t a patience he would offer anyone else bringing such disorder.
Although Cassian nursed it with scraps from his own meals to better conceal the secret, old man Talgo discovered the shenna in his bath one evening but didn’t force its release as Cassian had expected. He rather elaborately charged him with its protection. As a consequence, the boy was deathly frightened the one day he went back to his towering and cruel father cradling the little beast in his quivering hands asking what to do. The ill-looking shenna was quaking almost violently, even its red eyes, having done so all morning no matter what cure actions the boy had taken.
“There’s no hope for it now, son. Take it out back and put it out of its suffering. Be a man, it’s the only way.”
Surely the boy wished the old man would deal this death rather than teach him lessons about manhood; but his father only handed him a knife and looked on. Cassian lingered and looked into its pie-round burgundy eyes, waiting until he was outside beyond his father’s sight before the tears slid down his own nose. The shenna shook and wiggled as the boy hovered the serrated blade over one spot after another, over and again fitfully, setting the blade aside twice to cry and to rest from his failure to find the correct method and angle. He was entirely broken when the little beast looked blinkingly at him and tried to hold its position despite the shaking, dumbly sensing only that its master required it to stand still for something important.
At last, on the third attempt he drove the knife through to the rock below; and the silver creature went cold. He waited until the tears dried somewhat before returning to his father, anticipating at least the reward of the old man’s pride at following through on a man-sized responsibility.
“Bad decision. You trusted advice without verifying; and that was a failure. Everyone giving advice has an agenda, Cassian. Shenna quake when they’re pregnant.”
The same wide brown eyes that stared in horror at the towering old man with his drooping gray moustache and thick eyebrows now lingered on the old man’s aged sister, limping softly gripped to the forearm of a page. Her manner was stiff and unsteady; and the drugs and hormones that kept her coherent at all also assured the only thing she would say were she engaged would be a parroting of what she’d said on stage…over and over with no soul indwelling. Cassian took a very deep breath and faced the impatient advisors staring him down.
“Issue the draft. Don’t attack anything. There will be a response discussion in the morning. Bring the shelf plans. I want a War Recorder and a statistics officer present. No journalists.”
The assurance and surrender of his address sparked the ministers into a flurry of sidebar discussions, their collective chatter blending into a bland mumble as he was ushered into privacy for his protection. Cassian seemed to have been largely forgotten except as perhaps a figurine of a benevolent deity in which no one any longer believed but which was to be handled as precious even so.
Angry protesters shouting and leering viciously cowered and went limp as the massive Red Witch man motioned for them to back away, leading the War Marshal toward his flatrunner transport. Along the dockyard, shaded with a pale violet pergola over the covered walk, they overheard snatches of information about the frightful attack on Balcister Tower and the blackout of communication from much of the city. The rush of images and faces, the blend of voices and horror of what it all meant slowed the experience to a numbing dreamtime. It was only when he was inside the crowded runner racing over the desolate white flats that he realized he’d been clutching the forearm of his Red Witch guard.
As with all initiated Red Witch warriors, the guard’s skin had been chemically turned black as a sunless cave; and his head was shaved cleanly. Growth hormones had swelled his size to massive proportions, not quite as tall as two men. The whites of his eyes were tattooed a blazing phosphorescent red, as were his teeth. He wore pistol railguns in both leather thigh holsters and a burned and dented carbine slung across his back. As their native language was so foreign and horrible in its worldview compared to the Naraian dialects, those from the Red Witch provinces rarely spoke outside their territories.
This one here sat and watched the Talgo silently as if Cassian was gripping the cold stone of monument inscriptions.
“Can you be trusted?”
The mercenary sat silently, watching. Cassian only then noticed he and the Red Witch man were the only people inside the cell of the runner, separated from the pilot by a privacy wall. He withdrew his hand and slid further from the silent man, pushed against the backwards-facing chair. They stared at each other for some time while streaked views of the arid wasteland flickered on the window, lit up spottily with electrostatic flashes.
“Are you going to assassinate me?”
Frustratingly, the enigmatic fellow only watched coldly, lightly stroking an edge of blackened insulation shielding on his carbine. At last, Cassian nodded, assuming an answer in his favor.
“I know what they want. And I don’t think it’s unnatural to want to settle accounts.”
The Red Witch man was still as lake water but for the single finger.
“We’ve hated the hilljacks a long time; and now we’re looking back on raids and night attacks, hostages. Of course we hate them now. Look what they’ve done to us. But if you were going to ask me what started all that…what it was in the beginning...”
His voice dimmed, washed in the rush of the flatrunner. Rubbing the grizzle of white fuzz on his sideburns, “When you’re a kid and you’re getting called names and pushed; and the other kids are yelling at you t
o go at the other guy…to hurt him…whether you do something or you don’t…there’s really no way to win that.”
Cassian raised an eyebrow as he looked out the curved acrylic window, “I’ll tell you what is truly unnatural, rooted in vileness.”
He brushed stray strands of graying hair from his left eye and scratched the back of his neck, “In fact, it’s only struck me just now. That’s the most damning part: that it has only come to my mind now and not at the very first.”
He let the curiosity of it hang for a little while, as their runner rushed closer to an approaching dock which led through some covered walkways to the government house nestled within proud Tobin. There were ghostly silhouettes of those awaiting him.
“Just now…when they told me about the attack…whispers in my ear…explosions, conspiracy, thousands dead…why would I not ask after the safety of my own brother?”
Tearing Down The Statues Page 10
