“I could have just let them kill you, you know. But I don't expect you to thank me.”
“Thank you?” He laughed so hard that it kicked off another spate of coughing. “You should be thanking me. I got your men out of Denver. And for that, you throw me in a cell?”
“You should have stayed in Denver. You know what the Church thinks of wizards.”
“I couldn't stay. I was compromised. They know I helped your men escape.”
“But why come here? You could've gone anywhere. Why Texas?”
Ludlow rubbed his eyes. “I didn't know your fear of the TCC would override your gratitude for liberating your son and your best commander.”
The Honcho's hand went to the pommel of his sword. “I'm not afraid of anyone!”
“Then why am I in here, eh? But more importantly, what do you want?”
“Who says I want anything?”
Ludlow laughed until he coughed again. “Oh come now, your Excellency. You come to my cell, in the middle of the night, without any guards? That tell me two things. First, that you want something from me, and second...that you don't want anyone else to know you came.”
The torchlight made the Honcho's frown look even worse than it was. “I have some powerful weapons to bring to Rado. That should be enough to give me confidence. But they have a wizard.”
“Ah, now I see it. You want me to help protect your great weapons from Xander. To balance out their wizard with one on your side...leaving you with the advantage of superior firepower.”
“Can you do it? Or would you rather stay here?”
“He's very good,” Ludlow granted. “But the element of surprise can work wonders.”
Chapter 80
Jeffrey: “Then spoke the thunder.”
According to the map they were almost to Noodle. Though he understood his father's reasons, Jeffrey could not help feeling that it was wrong. It was bad enough for a town to be called Noodle. Must be some crazy story behind that. But bad as it was, it was at least a name. And soon there would be no need for it. Why bother even with a word on the maps when what it names is a smoking pile of wreckage?
The tanks had to be tested, and the crews needed experience. Fine. But did they have to destroy a town to do that? Even as he thought that, he could imagine his father's rebuttal. Why waste resources building targets for them to practice on when there were plenty of places like this, abandoned and empty?
Except Noodle wasn't abandoned.
As they approached, he could see that someone was trying to work the land. Yes, civilization had fallen. There was no electricity, no buses, no telephones. But the buildings were still standing. Apparently, long after the locals had fled toward the dying cities, someone else had moved in. Why build a log cabin when there were perfectly good structures? Some wanderers must have found the place and decided to start a commune. Whoever they were, they must have avoided the Honcho's scouts, shutting themselves away when horses cantered through on their way to somewhere else.
Even from a distance, he could see it was not a large community, and never had been. It must have begun as a way station, a place for the trucks of the ancients to stop and refuel.
It was a little like those islands he had read of in his father's books. A coral atoll arises somewhere in the ocean, and eventually accumulates the beginnings of soil. Birds come to nest, unwittingly bringing inside them seeds that would begin a forest. And then ships would anchor offshore. If there was game and fresh water, the island's location would be remembered. More ships would come. And eventually someone would stay and make a living offering goods to the ships that stopped there.
Noodle must be like that, he thought. A road had crossed another, bringing travelers through, until some had stayed to make a living refueling the trucks. Then feed shops, a restaurant, maybe an inn for drivers who didn't sleep in their vehicles. Before you knew it, there was something more than a crossing of roads. Something to give a name to. Only God knew why they had decided to call it Noodle. But they had.
And now he was here to destroy it. To put a period at the end of its sentence. To help it on its way to becoming nothing again...because the trucks weren't coming back. He had no doubt that the Honcho would devote all of the fuel his men refined to war. And armies do not found villages. They pass through them, or destroy them.
There was a line of people across the road. Jeffrey saw young and old men and women, their faces tired but not resigned. How had they known he was coming?
“Stop the tank.”
He was up and out the hatch before he could talk himself out of it. Someday these would be his people.
The other tank drew alongside of them and halted. Brutus was climbing out almost as quickly as Jeffrey. “What do you think you're doing?”
“There's people blocking the road, Commander. Are you going to just drive over them?”
Glock just looked at him. “Yes, if they don't get out of our way.”
Jeffrey shook his head. “Let me talk to them first. Once they understand – “
“I don't give a shit what they understand. I can't let you risk it. Your Daddy wouldn't like it...even if you survive.” The Colonel glanced at the people, then leaned toward the hatch and said something to his crew.
With a quiet whine and grinding of steel on steel, the Tank's gun swiveled to point at the center of the road ahead.
Once more Jeffrey found himself moving without planning it. The next order would be to open fire, and after that they would be seeing what happens to human bodies struck by high explosive tank rounds. He leaped off the top of his tank and dashed forward, moving directly in front of Brutus's tank. “If you shoot them,” he said, “it will have to be through me. The Honcho won't like that either.”
Brutus glared at him. His eyes shifted to the men below him inside the hatch. Jeffrey could almost see how his thoughts were spinning. What now? He couldn't shoot the Runt. But neither could he risk Jeffrey getting close enough to the rabble for a stray arrow to get the Commander in just as much trouble. Though he had operational control of this sortie, Brutus couldn't just order the Runt to get out of the way. And arguing with him about it in front of the troop would be bad for morale, bad for discipline.
After a moment, the Commander shrugged and lit a cigarette.
The pause was all Jeffrey needed. He began strolling toward the people. Relief flooded him. He was nearly shaking. Could it be that easy? If they'd been on horseback, Brutus would simply have followed him, or sent troops to cover him. But they had no horses here. Horses couldn't keep up with the untiring motors that sped the tanks. Sure, horses could put on a burst of speed when needed. But you couldn't ride them at full gallop mile after mile, not unless you had fresh horses waiting for you on the way.
Jeffrey kept left of center, staying on the same side of the road as Brutus's tank. He didn't hear the whine of a motor until it was too late. Then came a word of death: “Fire.”
And then spoke the thunder. Ahead of them, a group of people to the right of center simply disappeared, replaced by a cloud of dust and smoke and flying bits that used to be human. People to the left and right of them were blown off their feet by the blast, and some of them didn't get up again. An ancient ugly word came to mind: shrapnel.
“No! Oh God, no!” Jeffrey spun, ears ringing, and saw Brutus on top of Jeffrey's tank. As soon as he'd turned his back, the Commander had done the obvious: hopped up on the other tank and had them aim the gun to the right of Jeffrey.
There were horrified shouts and screams from the crowd as it scattered left and right.
Jeffrey raced back to his tank. “Damn you!”
Brutus blew out a cloud of smoke and grinned. “And that, son, is how you clear a road.”
Jeffrey could feel his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. “You didn't have to do that. They might have listened to me.”
Brutus climbed down and went back to his own tank. “Well they won't now.” He flicked the butt end of his cigarette a
way. “Let's get this over with.”
Jeffrey swallowed, aware that the troops in his tank were listening. He wanted to weep. He wanted to jump up there and punch the sardonic grin off Brutus's face. But he knew better. It wouldn't save anyone. Heart pounding, stomach twisting with the knowledge that the older man had made a fool of him again, he climbed down the hatch and looked at his men.
Nobody said anything for a moment.
Sgt. Haskew broke the silence. “Sir, we – “
“Stop.” Jeffrey willed his trembling to subside. A coldness swept over him. “Don't say another word.” He knew Brutus was right. The opportunity was gone. None of them would listen now. Future citizens had just become targets. He turned to face front. “Forward.”
They rolled forward. Some of the people were heading off toward a large building on the left, maybe an old warehouse. Thunder spoke again. Brutus's tank put a round in it before they could get inside, and what was left after the explosion collapsed with a crash that sent a ring of smoke curling out from it in all directions. The people who were lucky were lucky enough not to get crippled by flying bits of stone and wood ran around the wreckage and kept going.
Jeffrey tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He couldn't let Glock do all the shooting. “Fire on the first building on the right.” Only then did he remember the earplugs. He managed to get them in before the gun fired.
Once arrows rained on them, bouncing off the tank like so much hail. The other tank spat death, and the arrows stopped. This wasn't a battle. It was destruction and massacre. He could taste bile. His troops were getting experience all right. More than they bargained for. His father would probably be happy.
He found his canteen and gulped metallic-tasting water to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. Another successful mission. Another glorious victory for the Lone Star Empire.
Chapter 81
Peter: “After the agony in stony places”
He studied the report again in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, frowning. So Kristana had her people pulling double shifts making metal objects: pipes and disks.. So what? He had to assume that her spies had reported some of his own preparations. It didn't change anything. Making a few or even a thousand swizzles and everflames wouldn't do much to slow down his tanks.
There was a knock on his door. “Enter.”
A corporal came in and saluted. “They're back, sir.”
Peter returned the salute. “Good. “Have some sandwiches brought in.” As the man left, his eyes went back to the reports. Had Xander found a way to use an everflame as a weapon? He made a mental note to have another talk with Ludlow about what that might portend, and how they could counter it.
There was another knock on the door. Without bothering to wait for an answer, It opened and Brutus and Jeffrey entered. He had to smile inwardly at the contrast. His son was practically scowling, whereas the Commander's face was composed. Once again Jeffrey wore his mask of moral outrage, and Brutus seemed unconcerned and amused by it.
“Have a seat gentlemen. Was your mission successful?”
Brutus lit a cigarette. “Completely. We destroyed the buildings, and the crews got plenty of practice at driving and firing the guns.”
“Successful?” Jeffrey snorted. “Noodle wasn't abandoned. Or it was repopulated by drifters. Whatever. They saw us coming, and Glock fired on them!”
“Oh?” He noticed that Brutus didn't seem worried about it. “Any casualties?”
Brutus blew a smoke ring. “Only the squatters.”
Jeffrey exploded. “They were people, damn it! Yes, they were blocking the road, but we were the ones threatening their homes. They lived within our borders, so we were firing on our own citizens!”
“Rebels,” Brutus scoffed. “And you wanted to risk your life and have a chat with them. Would have accomplished nothing. I saved you the trouble, and saved your softhearted ass. If their arrows had gotten inside the tanks you'd be rethinking your attitude.”
And he was probably right about that, Peter thought. “Gentlemen, take it down a notch, both of you. I will have respect for my offspring and my officers. Now tell me everything.”
As they filled him in on the events at the place formerly called Noodle, he had to shake his head mentally. The differences between them were as obvious as ever. Jeffrey, with his greater concern for human life, had wanted to negotiate a resettling of the occupants somewhere else. Glock, with his greater experience, had stayed focused on the mission objectives, and given the crews experience not just in destroying structures, but using the tanks against enemies.
Mentally he sighed. Part of him wanted to make Brutus his heir instead of Jeffrey, even if the title Runt would seem like a misnomer when applied to the tall seasoned commander. Brutus would carry on with the expansion of the Empire, no question about it. He never let anything stand in his way.
The problem was, he just couldn't do it. For the Empire to succeed, it needed clear and consistent succession of leadership, and he'd concluded that a dynastic monarchy was the stablest form they could manage. If he set the precedent of making his best commander the next Honcho, it would set the stage for generations of infighting and competition among the officers as each military family strove to attain enough glory to be chosen. That might be great for the initial period of expansion, with each field commander trying to outdo his peers.
But what about when they had finished subduing and unifying the entire continent? Would it then be a competition between captains, between admirals, when they built their navy and began the conquest of Eurasia?
The Empire would not survive such competition. There would be rebellions, secessions, civil wars. And then what would he have spent his life building?
No, he couldn't do it. Jeffrey would be the next Honcho. But that brought its own problems. Unless he changed his attitudes, he would always be at odds with his own officers. If he didn't get off his righteous high horse and face reality, there'd be a lot of courts-martial and a general loss of morale. He had to learn to let boys be boys, especial the boys who were men leading his armies.
“All right,” he said, when they were finished. “Here's what I think.” He looked at his son. “I appreciate what you tried to do to spare some hostile citizens. We'll need every man we can get to build the armies required for expansion. But you forgot that the Commander had operational control of this mission. Trying to take over in front of the troops was a mistake, and bad for morale and discipline. I'd be chewing him out if he'd let you get away with it.”
Jeffrey did not take this criticism well. “I know about discipline,” he said, his voice sullen. “But how am I supposed to be learning how to run things when you never let me run anything? Glock didn't get where he is today by always being a subordinate.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said. “But when he was a subordinate he followed orders. He didn't get promoted by pulling stunts like you did, walking up to hostiles thinking you could talk them into abandoning their homes.”
Brutus was enjoying this too much, he thought. He turned to face the Commander.
“And you, stop grinning. You accomplished your objectives, and I'm glad of it. What I'm not happy about is that you allowed this disagreement between the two of you to happen in full view of the troops. You know better than that, Brutus,” he said, using Glock's first name to take some of the sting out of the rebuke. “You can disagree with fellow officers in private, but you have to be united in front of the lower ranks. Understand me?”
A soldier came in with a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of cider. Peter used the interruption to change his tone, underscoring his point. “Ah, good, thank you corporal. Now, gentlemen, let's talk tactics. Denver is going to have more than a rabble with bows and pitchforks. Have you had a chance to read that book on tank warfare?”
Jeffrey nodded. “The problem with it is that it is mainly about how groups of tanks fight other groups of tanks. Rado doesn't have any tanks.”
“Nor
anything that can stand against tanks,” said Brutus.
”You've both seen the size of her headquarters building. Do you foresee any difficulty bringing it down?”
Brutus yawned. “Nope. It's just a matter of having enough ammunition. All we have to do is blow out the ground floor and the rest of it'll collapse under its own weight.”
Jeffrey shook his head. “Are you sure we want to level it? We probably can, but why? For the psychological advantage? They'll know when they've been beaten.”
Peter almost laughed as their differences came out again. Brutus, asked what he considered a practical question, gave a practical answer. Jeffrey, on the other hand, saw it not as a logistical problem but a human one. “They have to stay beaten, son.”
“Yes, but it's a ridiculous waste! We should occupy that building, use it as the headquarters of whoever you put there as your local representative. Same building, but under new management. Look, you'll need a local headquarters anyway, so why build a new one that won't be as good as the structures the Ancients made?”
Peter considered it. He'd kind of liked the idea of toppling Kristana's tower, a visible demonstration of his power and the fact that she'd lost and he'd won. But the lad had a point. Why waste resources during an expansion when you could use what already existed?
“In that case,” he said, “tell me what you would do instead, both of you. How do we take the building without destroying it?”
Naturally, this sparked off another argument. While they debated strategy and tactics, he sent out for more food and drink. It was going to be a late night for all of them.
Chapter 82
Ludlow: “And after this our exile”
He moved like a ghost in the shadows of the empty armory. Well, not empty; the eight tanks were lined up (the ancient metal brutes reminding him of the dinosaurs in some of Xander's books) against one wall, and the two fuel trucks and three jeeps faced them from the opposite wall like a pair of metal monster armies lined up to attack each other on some ancient battlefield.
Pathspace: The Space of Paths Page 31
