The Tatja Grimm's World

by Vinge, Vernor

  “Hi, Cor,” he said. He leaned out to touch her shoulder. Kissing a girl on skoatback is virtually impossible.

  Cor held his hand for a moment. Svir continued, “I thought you were supposed to stay in Marget’s wagon with Ancho.” Cor had been under strict orders to remain in the wagon, but he was happy she’d chosen to mutiny.

  She retorted, “No, she tells me to stay with Ancho, period. And if you can’t see that’s what I’m doing, then perhaps I’ll take up some other male.” Svir looked more closely and saw that there was a bulge under her blouse where no bulge should be. A second later, brown eyes and a pair of pointed ears pushed out of that bulge.

  “Besides,” said Cor, “we wanted to get some exercise, and be with you.”

  “Um,” Svir felt a little jealous. No doubt she’d had some sleep this afternoon. The expedition from Crownesse had landed in Picchiu Province just after sunrise—nearly twenty-five hours ago. It had taken many hours to get equipment, troops, and skoats off the fastboats. They—Tatja and her generals—had decided to ride straight through the afternoon without sleep: in these longitudes there was no Seraph to twilight the night. The sun was still five hours above the horizon. Svir wondered whether he could hold out till dark. He was falling asleep in his saddle, a feat he would have sworn impossible just ten hours earlier. How the infantrymen kept going he couldn’t guess.

  But the crown’s strategy was sound. Soon they would meet the Loyalists—and incidentally come under Rebel art’ry fire. How exciting.

  Now they were moving up a gentle slope. The crest was about four hundred yards away. The tree cover was light, but there was still shade. To the east he saw the foothills of the Doomsday Range, green and gray. Beyond them, so far away and yet so clear against the sky, stood the great peaks of the range. On He’gate, the highest one, was the Doomsday observatory. The view brought him wide awake.

  “Svir, look up front.” There were riders clumped together. Svir squinted. It was Tatja and the colonel in charge of point security. At least it was the colonel’s skoat. But what was that officer doing this far back? They were talking to someone on the ground. The dismounted fellow was suited in maroon, and wore a strangely plumed hat. A Loyalist.

  The colonel wheeled and waved to the troops. The command was immediately translated by the sergeant driving the nearest team of art’ry skoats. “Hard hats!” the little sergeant shouted as she donned her own. Svir reluctantly reached for his own reinforced-web-plastic helmet, set it on his head, and fastened the chin strap. He had once thought the head armor looked rather dashing; well, everyone makes mistakes.

  Around them, the column was changing into an extended rank, about fifty yards from the crest of the hill. This would take a while. He and Cor dismounted. Heaven!

  Two hours later, they were back in the saddle. The expedition’s fifteen thousand troopers were assembled. For two miles in either direction the irregular line of skoats, guns, and men stood waiting to plunge into the field of enemy observation.

  A whistle sounded. The army surged over the crest. Ahead of them the road descended gently, then rose toward a second ridge two or three miles away. Miles beyond the second, he could see another. But the peaceful scenery extended just four hundred yards to their front. Beyond that, the green was broken by craters and patches of blackened earth. On the far hill, a stretch of burnt trees stood like monstrous black mold. The usually pleasant smell of charred wood came strongly across the valley. Svir looked at his wife. She was gently talking her skoat forward. Ancho had disappeared inside her blouse.

  The army descended rapidly, and Svir found himself praying they could escape enemy observation and gain the blackened hillside. Soon they would be out of sight to anyone beyond the next hill.

  Then the sky exploded. Two hundred yards to the front, a line of orange-red fireballs hung forty feet in the air. A second later Svir’s head was snapped back and his helmet clanged. He reached up and felt a quarter-inch shrapnel fragment imbedded in his helmet. He watched glassy-eyed as the fireballs become innocent black puffs of smoke and blew away. What would it be like when the enemy got the range and timing?

  The army broke into squares, one battle group forward, the next back, so as to avoid complete catastrophe if the curtain of fire ever came on target.

  The corrected fire was thirty seconds coming. The nearest burst was high explosive, and it made the shrapnel sound like a popped paper bag. He felt the blow through his whole body. His skoat staggered to its knees. Svir was tossed backwards, out of the saddle. He grabbed air, his mind filled with visions of landing on the ground and being trampled. Then his mount surged to its feet and he found himself on its rear, behind the saddle. He scrambled forward as the animal broke into a gallop.

  Cor! He looked wildly around and saw her riding out of the smoke. Her lower face was covered with blood. She came abreast of him and shouted, “You hurt bad?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you,” he shouted back. I His jaw was bloody, too. They both had nosebleeds. “Come on.” They were falling behind their battle group. They swerved around a brushfire and regained their positions. The formation finally reached the bottom of the valley, where they would be hidden from enemy observation. The air cleared, and Svir no longer choked on dust and smoke. At their far right flank an impactfused H.E. shell went off next to an art’ry piece. Svir watched in amazement as the gun tube rose high in the air.

  They learned later that casualties had been light, that the whole affair lasted less than fifteen minutes.

  His ears buzzed from the punishment they had received, and all sound came muffled. The land was black except for flickering halos of flame around tree skeletons. There was blue sky somewhere above the haze. They were now eighty yards from the crest. Shells still burst, but the enemy’s aim, at least for Svir’s battle group, was wildly inaccurate. Of the other battle groups, he could not be so sure. The ridgeline was cut by numerous defiles that made it hard to see cross-slope. The group’s forward motion ceased. Supply vehicles moved to the guns they were to feed. The air was filled with the sounds of whining skoats, creaking wagons, shouting men. These last were not confused sounds, but the efficient direction of officers who knew exactly what they wanted and were working with well-trained troops.

  The group was preparing for art’ry battle. A gun carriage pulled up near Svir and Cor. The driver leaped down and raced to the front of her skoats. She unfastened their harnesses and led them away from the piece. The gunmen on top of the carriage moved just as efficiently. They were performing a muchpracticed task, and there was no talk or wasted motion. Two of them unlashed the weapon as the other two passed a six-inch shell up from the supply wagon. Infantrymen ran past, their crossbows at port arms. Svir couldn’t imagine how they could run after the long day’s march, but the troopers were really moving. In seconds, they were gone in the smoke. Evidently that smoke was not due to enemy action—Svir could hear grenades popping. He looked back at the gunmen. The piece was loaded and the heavy plastic breach closed. A courier from the FAOs called out fire control directions. The greenish barrel was cranked up. Through the haze, Svir could see other gun carriages, and hear their breeches being slammed shut. The enemy was about to get a devastating reply. Then came a pause. The crown’s war machine awaited the command that would set it in motion.

  Three minutes passed, and still no action. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Cor say something. He turned to her. “What’s that?”

  “I ask, where are the Sfierranyil Loyalists?”

  A good question. Everyone here wore Crown camouflage. The only provincial he’d seen all afternoon was the one talking to Tatja and the point colonel. What sort of trap … he looked around, half expecting to see enemy bowmen spring from hidey-holes.

  Just then, an officer rode down the line, shouting indistinct commands. The gunmen looked up in surprise, then began unloading their weapons. As they did, the forward infantrymen came back down the hill. Svir gaped. This reminded him of stories
about recruits commanding training units. Apparently, the people at the top could not make up their minds.

  The troops reformed and resumed their march—though now they were moving east, parallel to the ridgeline. Svir sighed and urged his animal forward. It was at least an hour till sunset, and at this latitude twilight would last three hours.

  He sidled toward the nearest gun carriage and called to the driver. “What’s the story?” The woman looked down at him—his camouflage bore no rank insignia. Her answer was an obscenity, roughly equivalent to “We were shafted.”

  He fell back and walked beside a carriage. The gunman sitting there was more talkative. “That’s right. We got it up to here.” He motioned. “There’s only one decent reason for racing over that hill in daylight, and that’s to get our pieces in range and give the enemy a taste of our rock. If we weren’t going to engage, we should’ve stayed back there—” he waved at the hill to the south “—until dark, and then come across. Instead we lost men—for nothing!” The gunman seemed to realize he might be talking to someone in authority. “Somebody made a stupid mistake,” he finished.

  Svir found himself nodding. Perhaps Tatja. was out of action, but the Crownesse generals themselves were competent men. That left provincial treachery the most likely cause of the debacle.

  Behind them, the sun sent rose and orange across the sky. The high peaks of the Doomsday Range stood bright, the world’s ragged edge. They left the burning land, and soon there was only the smell of grass and living trees. If Svir hadn’t been in the saddle for most of the last twenty hours, he might have enjoyed the scene. He slumped forward, trying to keep his balance in the waves of sleep that swept stronger and stronger over him. Cor rode beside him; he was thankful she didn’t try to make cheerful conversation.

  The sky was dark now. Only the Doomsday peaks were still in daylight. They formed a jagged red band, hanging in limbo above the darkened, nearer lands. Somehow he had missed the sunset … .

  Then Cor was pushing at his shoulder, calling to him. He sat up and looked about. Twilight was nearly past. There were lots of stars, but Seraph’s familiar light was missing. “We’re here,” Cor said.

  At first glance the forest around them seemed uninhabited. Then he saw the tents hidden in the brush. Further away he could hear the grunchunch of browsing skoats. The Crown’s Men had finally reached the Loyalists. Svir slipped from his saddle and leaned against the skoat. A shadow approached.

  “Svo keechoritte bignioru?” it asked.

  Svir was about to croak, “Sagneori Sfierro,” (I don’t speak Sfierro) when Cor cut in with, “Attrupa bignoro chispuer, sfiorgo malmu.” Sfierro was quite close to Cor’s native Llereno.

  “Traeche ke,” the other said, and led them some hundred paces into the brush. The Sfierranyi stopped, pointed to an open space, and gabbled something more. “He says we can put our tent up here,” Cor said. Svir felt like crying. At this point he could scarcely unpack his skoat. The Sfierranyi solved that problem by unhitching the pack and dropping it to the ground. Then he grabbed the skoats’ reins and led them away.

  Svir looked stupidly at the gray patch that was the folded tent. Itchybites buzzed in the moist, cool air. The tiny bastards would feed well tonight. He fell to his knees and tried to unfasten the tent buckles. Cor joined him. Soon they had the tent spread flat on the ground. He slipped the center pole through the tent fabric and hoisted it. Cor crawled inside and set the floor rods.

  Then they were both inside. The ground seemed so soft. He reached for Cor, and she came easily into his arms. His kiss became a snore and he was asleep.

  Cor grinned in the darkness. “This is no good, friend. Tomorrow, you get more sleep during the day.”

  SIXTEEN

  “Listen, you pack of traitors. You cost us thirty-five men and three art’ry pieces this afternoon. We’re going to have an explanation or we’re going to have your heads!” In the flickering torchlight, Haarm Wechsler’s face was even paler than usual. “For the last two hours you’ve led us a merry chase all over this camp. But now we’ve found you.” He stopped and stood a little taller. The guardsmen behind him came to attention. “Now you can answer for your infidelity to Marget herself.”

  Everyone in the room—Provincial and Bayfastling—came to his feet. Tatja entered the Sfierranyil command tent and looked around. Close behind her came three general officers. Her lips parted in a faint smile and she murmured to Wechsler, “Got’em softened up, Haarm?” She advanced to the table and sat down. “Please be seated, gentles.” Behind her, the Crownesse people uneasily took their seats. On the other side of the table the Sfierranyil commanders seemed equally upset. Most of the provincial commanders were old men. All but one she recognized from Wechsler’s dossiers. These weren’t the best campaigners in the world, but they should have been loyal.

  Her tone remained pleasant. “Now that we are all together, perhaps things can be cleared up. You deceived us this afternoon. Your courier told us you needed immediate artillery support. When we came to your aid, we found you were moving away from us. This misunderstanding cost us men and equipment, and I ask for an explanation.” Her reasonable tone took some of the edge off Wechsler’s previous statement of the question.

  A militiaman stood and bowed, his chest of medals glinting in the torchlight. He wiped his hand through tangled white hair, the picture of a general disgraced; even his epaulets drooped. His Spräk was excellent, however. “Marget, what you say is true. There was deception. We can only beg your mercy. We deceived you because we were deceived ourselves. We, uh, our training is not as thorough as might be desired by Your Majesty. We are operating far outside our province. To the north is our enemy and the Doomsdaymen—which latter refuse us aid. To the south is Picchiu Province—whose army is our enemy.” The old man paused. His rambling had taken him so far afield he couldn’t remember his point. Tatja grabbed Wechsler’s elbow before that worthy could make some cutting comment about Sfierranyil mental acuteness. After all, she found normal people almost as dopey as this one.

  The militiaman had regained the thread. “Marget, the campaign has taken us further and yet further inland, as we followed the forces of the Rebel Profirio. We never guessed that your aid would come to us from the south—or that it would arrive so soon. We mistook you for Picchiul reinforcements pretending to be Crownesse troops. Thank the gods that you were so numerous that we could not attack you—only trick you into Rebel fire.

  “So. That’s why we deceived you. And that’s why, even when you arrived here, we were circumspect in admitting you to our command area.” The fellow’s head bobbed up and down miserably. Behind Tatja there was some easing of tension: the explanation was credible.

  Tatja nodded. “Where is Profirio’s main force now?”

  “Uh, we believe it’s across the river, about five miles upstream.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “How is that possible? This afternoon we were attacked by his artillery—and that was almost fifteen miles downstream from here.” She produced a small piece of parchment and wrote rapidly upon it.

  The young provincial sitting opposite Tatja touched the militiaman’s sleeve and said, “Deche mau, Sam.” The old man nodded gratefully and sat down.

  As the young man stood, Tatja handed the parchment to a messenger and whispered something to him. The courier nodded and left. She turned back to the provincials. The young fellow was dark, his beard close-trimmed. The expression on his narrow face was unworried, almost sardonic. He wore the uniform of a full general in the provincial militia, but his chest bore not a single medal—which was unusual, since the Sfierranyil Militia gave medals for things like having clean fingernails.

  “And who are you?” came Wechsler’s voice.

  “Marget, I am Jolle. Until present difficulties I was a commercial chemist, but war makes different things of people, and the Provincial Assembly elected me military commander of this expedition.” There was a faint snort of disgust from the Crown’s Men. They had a sayin
g in the civil service that a nation which elects its generals elects defeat.

  Jolle spoke rapidly. He had the right words and syntax, but there was a Sfierro lilt to his pronunciation. “You see, Profirio has split his art’ry from his infantry. So, in fact, our misunderstanding this afternoon may give us a decisive advantage over the Rebels.”

  “I Hmm, that would take some explaining.”

  Jolle nodded. “This Profirio fellow wants desperately to reach the mountains. We think he figures on persuading the Doomsdaymen to join his cause. After today’s encounter, we know the man has decided to gamble, to leave his art‘ry behind and gain himself speed. I suspect he intended to put his troops between us and O’rmouth, so our artillery fire would provoke the Doomsdaymen to enter the contest on his side. At the same time, his own art‘ry could follow both armies, along the Riverside Road. Thus he would end up with his art’ry on our flank and the Doomsdaymen against us, too.

  “Unfortunately for him, the scheme hinged on our ignorance of it. This is why our misunderstanding of this afternoon is for the good: Profirio’s art‘ry commander was flustered by your appearance. He opened fire, and destroyed his master’s plan. Knowing that his art’ry is hopelessly far behind, we can use the Riverside Road with impunity. Thus we can get inland the faster, and achieve just the position he wanted for himself.”

  Tatja considered. Profirio’s gamble had the ingenuity and daring she expected. It had failed because of a subordinate’s mistake and the unexpected appearance of her troops. There were still edges and ends that didn’t fit, but the more she saw, the more she was convinced that her goal was near.

  How quiet everything was. It was late, and the animals of these lands had no Seraph to light their nights. The only sounds were insects creaking. It was hard to believe they were sitting in the midst of an armed camp. Inside the tent, things were quiet too. Even the officers who pretended to be awake sat with their eyes glazed. A sound suspiciously like a snore came from behind her. These poor weak people—given thirty hours of hard work, they were dead on their feet.