“Human?”
“Yes. You’ve seen him close up,” Spears went on, unconsciously massaging his wrist. “It’s amazing, Prentiss. We can take the human body apart and put it back together again like new but the only treatment for a sprained wrist is to apply ice packs and wrap it in a goddamn elastic bandage.” He grimaced and turned back to de Tomas. “He looks like death warmed over. But here he is on this worldwide hookup looking like—like some tanned and athletic vid star!”
“Well, regrettably, sir, he’s pulled something off on us. The preliminary reports we’re getting from the outlying districts is that people are more interested in putting their lives back together than in what happened to the Ecumenical Leaders. Besides, the Collegium’s been a part of the scene in this world for so long now people automatically assume whatever it does is perfectly legitimate. The average man in the sect apparently thinks if the Collegium drags someone off in the night, especially if it’s someone from another sect, well, that person must have deserved it.”
“Yes, yes,” Spears said, “and so far as the ‘man in the sect’ is concerned, the high mucky-mucks in the Convocation are as remote from his daily life as any lay politician from the man in the street anywhere else in Human Space. Well, Prentiss, this is it for me.”
“You mean you’re resigning, sir?”
Spears looked hard at his chief-of-station before answering. “Hell no, Prentiss! I’m not resigning.” He held up his wrist, the one de Tomas had sprained. “Not now. I owe that sonofabitch. No, I’m staying right here, and I’m opposing that bastard in every way I can. He can complain about me all he wants to. I can outwrite the bastard in my own dispatches. The only way they’re going to get me off this world is feet first or by presidential decree, and I guarantee you, with what Ted Sturgeon and I will have to say about Mr. Dominic de Tomas, the old girl will want to keep me right where I am.” He raised his glass and toasted Prentiss. “I have not yet begun to fight.”
Carlisle sighed inwardly. I’d better contact the commander of the Marine security detail, he thought. The old boy’s going to need all the protection he can get from now on.
“You were absolutely brilliant, my leader!” Gorman enthused, alone with de Tomas.
De Tomas smiled and nodded. “Thank Miss Gelli and her maidens for that, Senior Stormleader.”
“Sir, messages have been coming in from all over the world, congratulating you on your bold action, your integrity, your . . .” He held up a sheaf of telegrams from government officials and church leaders, those too far down in the chain to have been earmarked for elimination, praising de Tomas’s performance earlier in the evening. “The people are behind you!” Gorman was nearly in tears, he was so happy.
“Yes. Well, if anybody is not, we know how to handle them, eh?” De Tomas laughed. “But Senior Stormleader, I have a special request of you,” he went on, very serious now. “This is a matter of some delicacy and I entrust it to you exclusively. You are to tell no one. Is that clear?”
“Of course, my leader! I stand ready for your orders!”
“Ahem. Senior Stomleader, I need companionship.”
Gorman hesitated an instant before responding, “‘Companionship.’ Yessir.”
“I have devoted my life to my people,” de Tomas mused, looking off into space. “I have had no personal life, no family, no friends. I think now I must have a—consort.” He looked straight at Gorman.
“Ah, yes, my leader, a ‘consort,’ surely. Naturally.”
De Tomas nodded, speaking almost to himself. “She must be young. I do not want a woman old enough to have been corrupted by those around her.” He held up one finger. “She must be healthy, Senior Stormleader—mark that, healthy.” He held up a second finger. “She must not be a religious zealot.” He held up a third finger. “She cannot, of course, be married. A widow would do, but she cannot be married.” He held up a fourth finger. “And finally, Senior Stormleader, she must be comely. Do you know what comely is, Senior Stormleader?”
“Yes, my leader, comely.” Gorman thought fast. “Comely like, ah, Miss Gelli, my leader? Miss Gelli is comely, very comely. Ah, yes, and so is Miss Madel,” he went on quickly, mentally kicking himself that he’d mentioned Gelli first.
“Yes, yes, yes,” de Tomas waved a hand, “but I have other things in mind for Miss Gelli and her assistants, Senior Stormleader.” Gorman felt a wave of relief pass over him. He had something in mind for Miss Gelli too. “But you are right, she is comely. I want a woman as comely as she, Senior Stormleader. So there you have it.”
“Yes, sir. Ah, have what, my leader?”
“I want you to find this ideal woman for me, Senior Stormleader!” de Tomas said as if talking to an idiot. “In your travels, in your discussions, in your business as the commander of the Special Group, I want you to find a woman who fits my requirements and bring her to me here at Wayvelsburg. I will interview her. If she turns out unacceptable, bring another, and so on. Until you find just the right one for me.”
“My leader, consider it done!” Gorman bowed deeply from the waist. But inside he seethed at the thought that elevated to command the Special Group, he was now to be his leader’s procurer.
EPILOGUE
The Brattles sat comfortably around the fire in their living room. It had taken them several days to reestablish themselves in their old home. The men had spent most of that time gathering in the stray livestock—the few that had been left behind in the rush when the community moved to Gerizim—and the animals were now secured in the barns. New herds would be bred from them in time, and in the spring—it was winter now in this hemisphere—crops would be planted and the community would also take root again and thrive.
None of the City of God survivors knew anything about the war against the Skinks or what had happened in the world since their sect had been attacked. They had known, of course, that the Confederation Marines had landed, and they also knew that the ministers of their sect were of the opinion the Marines had come to further oppress them. But since the disaster at Gerizim, the survivors had given no more thought to the off-worlders, or if they had, they would have been glad to see them.
Outside, a violent sleet storm raged in the night. In the flickering firelight Zechariah was reading aloud from the twenty-seventh chapter of Deuteronomy, when someone shouted. The words were carried away by the wind, but Zechariah looked up. “Who could that be?” he asked, reaching for the gun that was always close by these days. Comfort shifted the barrel of her shot rifle so it covered the door. The voice came again, accompanied by pounding on the door. Cautiously, Zechariah got up and opened it. Hannah Flood, accompanied by a blast of frigid air, stumbled inside.
“The night is aptly named after you, Hannah,” Zechariah said, his weak attempt at humor lost in the blast of sleety air that accompanied the woman. She stood gasping for a moment.
“Zach, come to the meetinghouse at once! Strangers have arrived! Oh, the poor souls, you should see them!”
Without a further word Zechariah slipped into a waterproof and stepped out into the darkness. Comfort followed, her shot rifle slung beneath her slicker. The three trudged down the street to the meetinghouse, its windows dimly aglow through the tempest. Inside, several villagers stood around three prostrate forms, two men and a woman, stretched out on the floor. Someone had taken off the rags they’d been wearing and wrapped them in warm blankets, but still, their faces were blue with cold and they shivered uncontrollably.
“They came to our home,” Esau Stoughten explained to Zechariah, “and we brought them here, but they need a doctor, Zach, look at their bodies.” He pulled the covers off one of the men. Comfort gasped. The outline of the man’s ribs showed plainly through his pallid skin, as did his pelvic bones, and his cheeks were sunken in like those of an old man. “They are all like this,” Esau explained, “and look at their poor feet.” He drew back the covers farther, to expose the man’s feet, which were torn to shreds. “They have walked a long ways, and in t
his weather, without shoes, only those pitiful rags.” He nodded at the sodden pile of clothes in one corner.
Zechariah knelt by the man. “Can you hear me?” he asked. The man’s teeth chattered but he nodded. “Where are you from? What happened to you?” He noticed the man’s body was laced with scar tissue, some of it very fresh but most of it from old wounds.
“Sk-Skin-Skinks,” the man whispered, shaking his head. “Monsters,” he croaked.
“Oh, dear God,” someone exclaimed.
Zechariah remembered the humans he’d seen hauling loads at the demon encampment on their way back to New Salem. “Skinks” is what this man called them? If they came from there, the monsters would be looking for them, would follow them, and would come to New Salem. Well, so be it, he thought. Then: “We must take them to our homes and care for them. I’ll take this man. Come, let us move them, and quickly.”
Two days passed and the demons did not come. The Brattles cared for their guest around the clock, Comfort and Consort feeding him nourishing broth and keeping him warm under a pile of quilts. Shortly after getting him into a bed, he lapsed into a feverish coma. He stayed that way during those two days, sometimes muttering incomprehensibly and groaning but otherwise unresponsive.
Early in the morning of the third day, Comfort dozed by his bedside, her Bible lying open on her lap. “Are you an angel?” a voice croaked, startling the young woman fully awake.
“Oh! Are you all right?” she said, kneeling by the man’s bedside. She lay a hand on his forehead. The fever was gone.
“I feel terrible,” he rasped, a weak smile on his lips. He gazed up at Comfort for a moment. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“My name is Comfort Brattle and you are in my father’s house in New Salem,” Comfort answered, pouring him a glass of water. She held it to his lips and he drank thirstily. Some slopped onto his chin, and Comfort gently wiped it away with a napkin.
“Th-Thank you, Com-Comfort,” he managed. “Comfort? What a beautiful name.” He smiled again. “You are an angel,” he sighed. His eyes began to flutter.
“What is your name, sir, and who are you?” Comfort asked. The man’s eyes began to close. She shook him. “Who are you?” she asked again.
The man opened his eyes. “I am . . .” He hesitated as if trying to remember who he was. “I am—call me—Charlie, Charles—call me—dear God—I don’t remember my name!”
By David Sherman and Dan Cragg
Starfist
FIRST TO FIGHT
SCHOOL OF FIRE
STEEL GAUNTLET
BLOOD CONTACT
TECHNOKILL
HANGFIRE
KINGDOM’S SWORDS
KINGDOM’S FURY
By David Sherman
Fiction
The Night Fighters
KNIVES IN THE NIGHT
MAIN FORCE ASSAULT
OUT OF THE FIRE
A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE
A NGHU NIGHT FALLS
CHARLIE DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE
THERE I WAS: THE WAR OF CORPORAL HENRY J. MORRIS USMC
THE SQUAD
DEMONTECH: ONSLAUGHT
By Dan Cragg
Fiction
THE SOLDIER’S PRIZE
Nonfiction
A DICTIONARY OF SOLDIER TALK
GENERALS IN MUDDY BOOTS
INSIDE THE VC AND THE NVA (with Michael Lee Lanning)
TOP SERGEANT (with William G. Bainbridge)
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Praise for
STARFIST I: FIRST TO FIGHT
“CAUTION! Any book written by Dan Cragg and David Sherman is bound to be addictive, and this is the first in what promises to be a great adventure series. First to Fight is rousing, rugged, and just plain fun. The authors have a deep firsthand knowledge of warfare, an enthralling vision of the future, and the skill of veteran writers. Fans of military fiction, science fiction, and suspense will all get their money’s worth, and the novel is so well done it will appeal to general readers as well. It’s fast, realistic, moral, and a general hoot. First to Fight is also vivid, convincing—and hard to put down. Sherman and Cragg are a great team! I can’t wait for the next one!”
—RALPH PETERS
New York Times bestselling author of
Red Army
Starfist: Kingdom's Fury Page 34
