Lines of Thunder: The First Days on the Front (Lines of Thunder Universe)

by Walter Blaire

  In a blink, Gole was alert again. He sat up, groped around for any kind of cover, and slid into a shallow furrow in the ground. So he was Polluted, damn him and all the pains it brought, but this time he would use it. Maybe he was nothing but simple battlefield automation, bred to order for some long-ago race of foggy, tall creatures—it simply didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was that he was tired of all this trickery. He knew what he had to do; he knew it with a clarity that surpassed his regular slow, stumbling thoughts. That tiny monstrosity, that aberration, that Red Cap bastard who moved like an old lady: Red Cap was going to answer for all of this.

  He whipped his rifle off his back, where it had dragged in the dirt like an anchor and probably slowed the soldier saving him. In a fluid motion he separated the knot clasp and brought the rifle to bear between his feet. The movements were effortless, like a dream. He could even hear Red Cap scratching slowly through the soil. Gole could hear, actually hear, the deliberative shifts in the sand. Despite the gunfire, he could distinguish Red Cap’s movements from the others.

  The power of this! This freedom of action—maybe it was worth all the rest of the Pollution. If he could tap this power at will, he’d never use his brain again.

  “Idiot, clear your—”

  Gole heard the other soldier only after he pulled the trigger. The rifle barrel, packed with dirt, blocked the muzzle blast. The rifle exploded in his hands, flinging his arms open. It stomped him into the dirt like a train carriage landing on his chest.

  Invincible Gole blinked out like a bad idea.

  14

  Gole’s earliest memories of his house.

  In the warm months of the year, the days filled with herding and farm work. As the house emptied before dawn, the youngest Tachba were collected in the kitchen and pinned to the floor with table and chair legs through their swaddling so they wouldn’t be underfoot. There, the infants would watch the kitchen for hours at a time. The organized activity of the women was their first classroom. The children watched, learned, and developed until they were three years old if they were girls, and six if they were boys.

  Gole’s first specific memory was a table leg named Babaa, a particular best friend. His next memory was Orrie, one of his many older brothers.

  Orrie was wild. He was nominally a milk-fed, supposedly more regulated than his blood-fed twin, but he had two helpings of the Pollution. Dizzyingly imbalanced, Orrie answered unheard voices and fell cheerfully into waking dreams. He made his family wonder what strange night-worlds he was seeing, even as he chatted and finished his daily chores.

  Orrie wanted to speak to everyone and for some reason he liked Gole best. He’d sit with Gole and Babaa between training sessions and explain the world beyond the kitchen table. It sounded fascinating! One lucky morning, Orrie even snuck him outside into the sunlight. The visual stimulation in the courtyard overwhelmed baby Gole and sent him catatonic. After that, whenever Orrie’s wood-soled boots hit the kitchen floor, Gole kicked the air and squealed with excitement.

  “You-hearing the boots, neh?” Orrie said once. “The boots making-your heart jump, my Best Little Bird?”

  Gole stared back, struggling to form words and emitting nothing but drool.

  “Well, Golephan, here is the story of the boots. They belonged to my older brother, whom we’ll call Vavvie, but he tried to stab Papa so forget him. Before that, they belonged to Phaphta, who was found in the forest, in pieces. Before that, they were Papa’s until they got too small. Before that, they were Papa’s Papa’s (who was strangled by Papa), and Papa’s Papa’s Papa before that. Can you believe that many Papas in a row? Momma, Gole smiled!”

  Orrie tapped his heel on the floor. “These ancient boots! How many years will pass before one of us finds the patience to make another pair of boots this fine? It might be generations before the family spawns another obsessive cobbler—the Pollution mostly gives us fighters, doesn’t it, Gole? We’ll have to keep these boots going another century yet, my Best Little Bird.”

  True enough, the boots had next gone to Japha and then his blood-fed twin Phajaja. Then they’d been co-opted by a slight little girl—Nana. Nana was Gole’s sister, older by two years, and in charge of educating him and his brothers. She had liked the boots’ almost mystical power in the house: they were so storied that every male cringed when they heard them on the floor. They all had an association, some father or older brother who had worn the boots and meted out the training. She found them marvelous for keeping discipline.

  As captivating as Orrie had been, Gole was days in noticing when the boy died. Even then, it was just a dim awareness of one voice less, one set of warm hands fewer.

  It was Nana who told him the story, years afterward. Gole had mourned for only a moment before the Pollution swept through and erased the sadness.

  What had happened was this: the older boys of the house had a pretend spear hunt going. It was another form of training meant to enhance task persistence. Hours of quiet stalking through the dark halls and rooms. The tension could grow unbearable, and when the Pollution’s demands overwhelmed their young minds and sent them sideways into confusion or madness, they were beaten unconscious. In the next hunt, the boys would last much longer, because the Pollution wanted them to remain in the fight.

  It didn’t work for Orrie, though. He slipped out of conscious make-believe and into one of his dream-worlds. When Papa’s man, Grueff, entered the main hall balancing a tremendous keg of beer on his shoulders, all the boys charged out of the gloom screaming like banshees. Only Orrie didn’t turn his spear. He was wrapped in his dreams and oblivious to reality. He pinned Grueff against the door through his flabby gut.

  Grueff gave a startled cry and dropped the keg. He reached up the spear’s haft to catch Orrie just waking, and pulled the boy’s arms off.

  15

  Gole, the vulnerable fourteen-year-old, blinked back into consciousness. He couldn’t move his arms. He couldn’t turn his head. His breath came in shallow gasps, but he couldn’t hear them over the noise. He was being dragged again like a useless squeaker. He was not only failing to fight, he was actively keeping someone else from fighting. He tried to break free of the clutch on his collar, but what felt like a galvanic full-body wriggle didn’t even register with the boot dragging him.

  As he bounced along the ground—whoever had him was moving at a run—he generated a picture of the situation. It sounded like several things were going wrong at once.

  Four breathless voices. Three rifles firing into the dark. The fourth rifle was quiet because its bearer was dragging him. This was a breakneck retreat under fire. Breakneck but orderly. The last remnant of the squad held onto its discipline with an iron grip, like a grenade that would kill everybody if the grip failed. They leapfrogged from hole to hole, providing covering fire. The resounding Southie rifles grew more distant with every volley. Nonetheless, a heavy slug took the tip off Gole’s boot, missing his toes but wrenching his leg to the side.

  He screamed, but it came out as a gurgle. If he felt enough pain, maybe Pretty Polly would come back, and maybe he’d be able to move himself.

  “I don’t know if I love you or hate you!” The soldier dragging him this time was not the same as the first. This one sounded almost cheerful. “Very kind in you to warn us about the big bomb at the start—a little late, maybe. On the other hand, you’re like dragging an ammo cart with no wheels. You have a big dinner today?”

  “Where?” Gole wheezed.

  “We got turned around a bit. Now we’re about three minutes away from the trench, and for me, four minutes away from a nap.”

  “I mean where is Grulle?”

  “Ah, yes.” The voice above him turned remorseful. “Which your blood-fed is dead, blown into the sky and fluttering down. I stepped on his corpse as we withdrew. He didn’t respond, except to tell me to get off.”

  What does that mean? These impossible people. Gole said, “You’re saying he’s—”


  “He was just dead-talking, I’m sure,” the voice said. “You get a noise when you step on a dead one, but you know all about that, neh? Heard how you carry on with corpses.”

  “You get a noise if you step on live ones, too,” Gole forced out.

  “Well, true,” the voice said, with sudden bafflement. “Damn my mind-meh, that’s true at that. I should’ve thought it through. He was probably wounded.”

  “We have to get my brother!”

  “No chance of that now. We’re home safe. Grulle looked comfortable, if that helps.”

  The sky had grown faintly light but Gole, with his dirt-filmed eyes, didn’t notice until the horizon wheeled above him.

  He caught a glimpse of sandbags and landed at the bottom of the trench, unable to move.

  Men were firing from the step-up, a new roar as they covered the last of the fleeing night patrol and chased the Southies back into the darkness.

  Gole tried to grasp the wall so he could pull himself upright. His hand didn’t obey. In fact, his arm was trapped beneath him, bent painfully behind his back.

  He had just located and successfully moved his other arm when a face loomed over him.

  It was Corphy, purple with hate. “Ye murdering scrag, what did you do? They say ye broke silence discipline. Now where is Sergeant Nadros? Where is the rest of the patrol? A write-off between the trenches, even your own blood-fed? You’re getting your summary if I have to shoot you myself.”

  Gole had one arm he could move.

  He swung at Corphy with all his focused might. It didn’t work. He drew three bloody lines across Corphy’s cheek with the stumps of his fingers.

  He held his hand in front of his face and stared. The rifle, when it exploded, had taken pieces of his hand with it. He forced his eyes off the bloody mess and found Corphy, who seemed confused.

  “I just punched you,” Gole explained.

  “Oh?” The lieutenant straightened, pulled his foot back, and kicked. The tip of his boot buried itself in Gole’s ribs. Gole was fourteen, and Corphy was a grown Tachba with a full bloom of righteous anger. The kick emptied his lungs, lifted him off the trench gutter, and dashed him against the wall. Gole slid down it like a wet rag and found himself sitting miraculously upright against the sandbags. At least he didn’t have to pull himself up now.

  Gole couldn’t savor it for long. Without air, his body gave up. He dropped unconscious again, this time definitively.

  IV

  Giving Up

  16

  In which Gole Naremsa gives up, but sees a robot.

  Gole awoke to voices, and became instantly alert. A Tachba voice he didn’t recognize: “Which the squeaker saved a good many boots, ringing the bell on the Southies like he did.”

  “We don’t know that, Sophalon.” That was Corphy’s voice. “All we know is that he lost silence discipline and the patrol turned into a bloodbath. Now I’m down ten boots and Sergeant Nadros. He was one of our best.”

  Corphy’s tone was more modulated and controlled than usual, which Gole took to mean they were in the presence of a Haphan Overlord.

  “He’s awake,” said Colonel Luscetian softly. Though the voice was lighter and higher than the Tachba, it cut through the discussion like a knife. “Golephan Naremsa, don’t just lurk there playing dead.”

  Gole opened his eyes and saw he was back at HQ. It was almost a repeat of the first day, only now it was Gole on the ground next to the map table.

  He gathered his legs and stood. He’d been dragged on his heels, apparently, and for so long his boots were almost off. He stamped his feet back into place and swung his arms. He felt marvelously unremarkable. Almost fully restored, except that his neck was as stiff as a tree trunk and it crackled like stale bread when he moved it.

  “Weren’t you supposed to be wounded?” the colonel asked.

  “Like I said, lazy.” Corphy eyed him. “Sleeping and making the rest carry his weight.”

  Gole answered the Haphan. “Shot in the back of the head, colonel. Then the explosion flew me like a bird. Then my rifle exploded in my hands.” He belatedly checked his hands again, spreading them open. The forefinger gone from both of them, and several more fingers with missing joints. The stumps had already scabbed over. He never used those parts much anyway, he decided, and recognized the Pollution at work in the thought. “The rifle was my fault. I didn’t clear my piece.”

  “You seem to be thriving for someone shot in the back of the head,” the colonel said.

  After a moment, Gole realized this was a question in the Haphan style.

  He turned to show them. The wound at the base of his skull felt rough and hot, but that could have been his decimated hands. He could tell, at least, that the skin was holding, which hopefully meant the damage would repair. The wound was a deep divot at the top of his neck, it would probably take weeks for the muscle to fill back in and his stiffness to vanish.

  The boot next to Corphy, the one named Sophalon, laughed outright. “Which I give you joy in keeping your skull. Looks like you almost had it off, Gole, and it’s a vital part of one’s person from what I’ve heard.”

  “Indeed,” said the colonel. “The boy was not exaggerating. Shall we—sir!”

  Gole turned to find them stiff at attention.

  In front of them was a new Haphan, the smallest and oldest yet. He was unshaven and wearing an ill-fitting uniform. He was slovenly enough that if he had been a Tachba, he’d be marked for discipline and checked for madness. It was a moment before Gole distinguished the patch on the Haphan’s breast and the black stars embroidered down his shoulders: an actual general!

  “God, Luscetian, relax. You gave me a fright.” The general looked them up and down, and then his eyes landed on Gole. However slovenly the rest of him appeared, the general’s eyes were alert and quick. “What have I stumbled into?”

  “General Tawarna,” the colonel said, “just a minor disciplinary.”

  “La, I hate those.” The general’s gaze turned sad, pitying, and Gole burned with shame. “I wonder if this is the boot in question.”

  “Yes, sir, a new replacement, Golephan Naremsa.”

  The general glanced back. “Ah. The colonel learned his name.”

  The colonel smiled faintly. “I haven’t been able to get away from him. He’s been in the thick of everything since he showed up.”

  “Lieutenant,” the general said next, and a tremor passed through Corphy’s shoulders. “I wonder what this boot did, that I had to hear his name.”

  “Yes, sir,” Corphy said stiffly.

  “I rather meant to say, what did this boot do?”

  “Do?” Corphy’s ire welled to the surface. “Which first he kissed me one. Then wasting the lieutenant’s time up until the lieutenant was plinked. Then breaking silence discipline to warn of an ambush. Then they tossed him back into the trench and he kissed me another one, or tried to!”

  The general considered this, his eyes lingering on Corphy’s face. The moment stretched long, until the Haphan’s stillness was high contrast with the twitching and trembling of Corphy. They all sensed it, the fundamental difference between the two races. Gole couldn’t help himself: he blushed with shame on Corphy’s behalf.

  “I wonder-meh, why I-walk the trenches at all,” said the general. When he used the trench-talk phrasing, it didn’t sound forced. “I only find new points of failure. Here, lieutenant, we have a story of failed discipline. When I hear that, I feel regret. Do you know that word? Regret?”

  “Which I know it, my lord,” Corphy mumbled.

  “Yes, it’s regret exactly. I see a boot brought up for discipline, and it’s almost like I failed him myself. I failed him all the way until his last misstep. Have you ever felt that way?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Never?”

  “Well, maybe someday soon, if I’m lucky?” Corphy groped for more to say in the face of the general’s silence. “Which our lieutenant were only just plinked, so I haven’t earned my
own regrets yet, you see.”

  “Oh, it’s quite a thing to lead men, lieutenant.” The general turned to Colonel Luscetian, who had gone still as a statue. Gole was unsettled to see that Luscetian’s face was red, though he couldn’t fathom why. “The feeling of it, all that pride in your men, and what they do, and how they act. It’s tempered by the worry for them. Do you worry for your men, lieutenant?”

  Corphy answered slowly. “I find it better if they worry about me.”

  “Ah, well, that part comes without effort.” The general shrugged. “Worry always flows upward, like it damn well should. We all worry what our superiors think, no? The magic happens when the worry flows downward as well. When the officer realizes, finally, that every damn thing that happens, good or bad, is an outcome they engineered.”

  The general turned fully to Gole, studying him up and down, but he still spoke to Corphy. “Lieutenant, we Haphans can’t just shoot the bad elements. At least, we can’t shoot them here, in the trench. If there is a problem and a soldier can’t be redeemed, it must be fixed some other way.”

  “I understand, my lord,” Corphy said.

  “Good man.” The general’s eyes didn’t leave Gole. “I understand how you understand me. Colonel?”

  Colonel Luscetian swallowed. “Yes, my liege. I see the necessity.”

  Gole stared back. He’d have his chance next. They’d ask him to speak. They had to.

  “Look how controlled he is,” the general murmured, and shook his head. “Not even a twitch, and so young. I wonder how many we’re wasting these days, eh, colonel?”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  The general turned to leave.

  Gole blurted, “But what about—”

  “Shaxx!” the general snapped.

  Gole’s mouth snapped closed, almost making him bite his tongue. Corphy and Sophalon froze, their tweaks switched off like a light. The stop order, but in Tachbavim, and from the general himself.