by John Ringo
In a way the use that the prisoners were put to was a shame; they’d make decent sword fodder. For that matter, the Changed were apparently New Destiny’s idea of what made good soldiers. Which just showed that New Destiny had its head firmly up its ass. They were tough and aggressive but they also had a strong tendency to break if they took too many casualties and were impossible to discipline. They were just fine with scream and charge but no damned good at holding a shield line.
Using them as garrison in a town that was being particularly resistant to reason had its attractions. Renan came to mind as did Tarson. But Raven’s Mill, not to mention the Freedom Coalition, couldn’t do something like that; they were the good guys.
Diablo knew the way home and had broken into a trot beyond the construction on the wall so before Herzer knew it he was at the gates of the Academy. He realized it when he heard a familiar voice.
“You appear to be thinking deep thoughts, Lieutenant.”
“Just considering the lack of manpower, Gunny,” Herzer replied with a grin.
Master Centurion Miles A. “Gunny” Rutherford had been a reenactor prior to the Fall. In his latter career he had specialized as a noncommissioned officer in the Norau Marines, a position called “Gunnery Sergeant,” and he had lived his life for years in that role to the point that he lived, ate and breathed the model, in his mind, of such a person.
As it turned out, he had more background for the role than most people had realized. He was born shortly before his parents decided to move to the province of Anarchia, a region that was maintained, prior to the Fall, in a nontechnological environment. Gunny had never been too sure what happened to his folks after they emigrated but it was probably similar to what had happened to Duke Edmund’s brother. It was an area used as a “bleed off” for people who didn’t want to live in paradise and it was anything but. Anarchia, in those days, had been run by groups of feudal warlords, and newcomers had a tendency to die in distressing numbers. Gunny had grown up in that environment, eventually becoming one of the punk soldiers of the “Baron” of Melbun. It was there that he had first run afoul of Duke Edmund, when the man born by the name of Charles came looking for his missing brother and decided that Anarchia needed a good shaking up. The “Baron” had learned, the hard way, that undisciplined gang members didn’t stand a chance against a disciplined army. The survivors of the Baron’s men had been inducted in the burgeoning army of Charles the Great.
That had been years ago, centuries before Herzer was born. Afterwards, when Anarchia was pacified and the sad story of his brother pieced together, “Charles” had returned to the world and become “Edmund Talbot,” just another reenactor. And with him had come his friend, Arthur Rutherford.
After the Fall, Gunny made his way to Raven’s Mill and took up his position again, trainer for the new corps of Blood Lords.
Of which Herzer was, by far and away, the best known member.
“You do what you can with what you’ve got,” the NCO at the gate said with a shrug. “We’re doing well enough,” he added, gesturing around.
The area at the base of Raven’s Hill had been part of the Faire grounds prior to the Fall. As the town began accepting refugees the area had first been used as a processing area, then with the establishment of the Blood Lord Academy the Hill had been turned over to the Academy.
Where a few buildings had once stood there were now headquarters, barracks, stables, and on the top of the hill, one of the highest in the area, was a building fortress.
Herzer considered the answer as he looked around. While it was true, it was also the reason that Gunny was going to always be an NCO. His focus was on the troops, not where they might come from. Training them was his passion, using them in battle was a close second. But Gunny always thought at those, essentially tactical, levels. Herzer was, slowly, learning to think beyond the here and now, a trick he was picking up from Duke Edmund. The New Destiny forces had the same manpower problems as the Freedom Coalition. Their answer had been to support Norau forces that were hampering the Coalition while building, from reports, a large army at home in Ropasa.
Gunny could, and would, focus like a laser on training the raw troops given to him. And the end product was excellent, as Herzer himself had proven. But he distrusted allies and gave most of his thought processes to better use what he was given. It was up to officers to find more bodies and integrate untrained allies.
Because no matter how good the Blood Lords were, and they were very good, there was no way the relative handful of fully trained soldiers could stand up to the army that Paul was building.
“Well, we’ll be getting some new recruits from Harzburg and some of the surrounding towns, soon,” Herzer replied, walking Diablo over to his paddock. “Then we’ll have more to do with.”
He dismounted and started stripping off Diablo’s tack as a pony-sized unicorn, followed by a young colt nearly her own size, came trotting over.
“Hi, Herzer,” the unicorn said in a high-pitched voice. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Hi, Barb. Admit it, though, you’re glad Diablo’s back.” Herzer chuckled, opening up the gate and letting his mount into the paddock.
“H’zer!” the colt shrilled then butted Diablo in the side with his short, stumpy horn. “D’ablo!”
“He doesn’t really know who you are,” Barb replied, ignoring the jibe. “He does that with everybody.”
Prior to the Fall, Barb Branson had been through several Changes and just prior to the Fall she had turned herself into a unicorn. The Fall had caught her in that form and, after several unpleasant experiences in the aftermath, she had been recaptured from Dionys’ forces. Despite the fact that she was now in better hands she found herself unable to adapt to “human” society and lived with the horses, and Diablo particularly. The relationship had been the source of some crude jokes initially but now had become so normal the people of the town barely considered it. The colt was the result of mating with Diablo and seemed to be progressing somewhere between a human baby and a horse. He had been able to walk almost immediately but speech was a relatively recent acquisition.
“He’s growing fast,” Herzer said with a nod. The colt, from reports, had been barely the size of a cat when born and now stood taller than his mother at the withers. He looked as if he was going to try for his sire’s size.
“And getting into everything.” Barb sighed. She went over to the feed supply and slipped her horn into a hole. A lever inside dispensed a measure of grain and she nipped at the colt to keep him away as Diablo walked over to feed. “We had to fix this so his horn wouldn’t reach; he figured out how to use it when he was about three months old.”
“Well, take good care of Diablo,” Herzer said. The horse in question looked up at his name, then took another mouthful of grain and, still chewing, walked to the center of the paddock. When he was in the right spot he lay down and rolled onto his back, writhing from side to side to get the dust good and thick. He rolled until he was well covered in dust, then walked back to the trough to finish his feed. Barb had stood by patiently, keeping the youngster away, until he returned. “Anything you need?”
“Nope, we’re fine,” Barb said. “Thanks for setting this up.”
“Not a problem,” Herzer said. He carried the tack into the barn attached to the paddock and put it away, then picked up his baggage and headed to the barracks.
As a Blood Lord officer he had a room of his own but it was Spartan in the extreme. Every time he returned he promised that he’d do something about decorating but he never did. The room had a rough bed, a desk, a footlocker, an armor stand and a wall-locker. He dumped his gear on the floor and then stripped off his armor, working his shoulders around as the weight came off. Then he carefully put away everything that didn’t need immediate cleaning. He knew there was an orderly around somewhere and he could leave the cleaning of his clothes and armor to the orderly’s attention.
He drew the short sword he’d been carrying and che
cked its edge but he’d cleaned and honed it since the last time he used it so it didn’t need anything. He polished and oiled it out of habit, then considered his next moves.
He was supposed to report to Duke Edmund but he figured he could at least get the road grime off before he did. The question was whether to walk across town and use the baths or just shower at the barracks. Finally he decided on the latter and stripped off his clothes, wrapping a towel around his waist.
The showers had been added to the barracks just before he left. There wasn’t much to them, just a series of spigots overhead surrounded by concrete floor and walls. Compared to the bathhouse they were positively primitive, but it beat the heck out of walking all the way across town. For some reason he really didn’t want to talk to half the people in town, which was more or less what would happen if he headed to the baths.
The barracks were deserted this time of day — the instructors were out chivvying students or working in their offices, which were across the quad, and the permanent guards were drilling — and he wandered down the corridor alone. The showers were at the center of the wooden building, past officer territory and into the area where the NCOs bunked. He nodded at the charge of quarters as he passed, then turned into the bathroom.
There was an orderly in there cleaning up but, again, he just nodded at him, then walked into the shower room, pulling the towel off and hanging it on a hook before turning on the water.
The water took forever to get hot, but at that it was still better than anything Harzburg had had for a long time. There was a sliver of soap on a ledge and he used it liberally including on his hair. The latter was starting to get long again and it was about time for a cut. But that, at least, would have to wait. By now the duke would have heard he was back. He turned off the shower and grabbed his towel, heading back to his room.
In the main bathroom there was a row of spigots spilling water into a concrete trough with a long metal mirror mounted over it. Herzer paused by it to survey his face. He’d had hair-growth on his face stopped prior to the Fall so he didn’t have to worry about five o’clock shadow. His hair was a tad long, starting to touch his ears at least, but it would pass inspection. Only the Blood Lords conformed to Gunny’s remarkable standards of personal grooming.
He headed back to his room and began donning a fresh uniform. It was a tad loose — he’d lost weight on the Harzburg mission along with everything else — but it still fit well enough. Cosilk underpants and shirt, gray cosilk trousers and the kimonolike overtunic. The latter’s lapel and trim was in light blue, from time immemorial the color of infantry, and there was a blue stripe down the outside of the trousers. Blue for the infantry, yellow for cavalry, green for the archers and red for engineers. He stopped before putting the tunic on and pinned the two pips of a lieutenant to the lapel. He looked at it for a moment, then shrugged.
“Might as well go full blast,” he muttered, opening up the footlocker and extracting a small leather box. From it he pulled a device like a shield, which he pinned on the left upper breast of the kimono. Below it he pinned four medals. The one on the uppermost row was a representation of a gold laurel. The three on the row below were a silver eagle, wings outspread, another shield, formed in bronze and pair of crossed swords.
As soon as the medals were arranged to his satisfaction he slipped into the kimono and belted it with his sword-belt. He picked up his sword, gave it an automatic check, and slipped it onto the belt. Normally the weapon sat high on his right side, attached to his armor but he’d spent so much time in both configurations either one was relatively comfortable.
He stepped out of the room and down the corridor to the main entrance.
“If anyone asks for me I’ve gone to report to Duke Edmund,” Herzer said as he headed for the double doors at the front of the building.
“Yes, sir,” the charge of quarters replied. He was reading something and didn’t look up.
Herzer paused and turned on one heel. “That’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to write down, Private,” he growled.
“Yes, sir,” the private replied in a much more focused voice. He opened his ledger and reached for the quill standing in an ink bottle.
Herzer nodded at him, then turned and walked out the door.
* * *
“Come,” Sheida said at the door chime.
Her aide Harry Chambers came in, followed by a tall, thin, dark-haired man. He could have been anything from thirty to two hundred. He had an expression of slightly distracted amiability on his face as he nodded at the council member.
“Joel Travante,” Sheida breathed. “Welcome. Most welcome, sir. Sit, please. Harry, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Harry said, stepping out and cycling the door shut.
As the door shut the man in the float chair changed subtly. Whereas he had been smiling, the smile dropped from his face to be replaced by a blank, hard mask, and his languid pose, while not shifting a millimeter, dropped away. He went from seeming to be a nice, simple, professional to something that looked more like a drawn sword.
“How are you?” Sheida asked, nodding at him, hard. “Where have you been?”
“In the Asur Islands, ma’am,” the inspector said, sitting forward and nodding back. He had a deep, baritone voice and his eyes were blue and cold.
Prior to the Fall, the world had had little crime. With nearly infinite wealth, personal protection fields and the availability of semilegal means to fulfill even the darkest fantasies, there was very little opportunity or need to cause it.
There were, however, individuals who for various reasons committed offenses of one sort or another.
Given that people could live any sort of life they desired, it required an odd person to commit crime, especially particularly vicious and predatory crimes. And with a life of luxury, it required an even odder person to devote their life to finding criminals.
But just as there were persons who could not resist breaking laws, there were others who had something in them that drove them to search, find and just as often destroy the worst of the criminals. These were the Council Inspectors. There were very few of them, no more than a hundred in the year prior to the Fall, and most of them worked part-time. But among them there was an elite, the Special Inspectors, who had powers nearly equaling those of the Council. And Inspectors only got to be Special Inspectors by both having a long career of tracking down the worst of the criminals and by showing exemplary conduct doing it.
Joel Travante had been a Special Inspector for nearly forty years prior to the Fall.
Direct access to Mother’s DNA database was closely restricted. To obtain a general DNA search required a plurality of council member approval, and a direct location search required a super majority. But prior to the Fall the inspectors had enormous resources to find their subjects. The slightest clue at the site of a crime could be used to track down the perpetrator. A shred of DNA, a fiber of clothing, any distinctive chemical or biological residue, and the inspectors had a lead that they would follow until they died or hell froze over.
Or the whole world came apart.
“What were you doing there at the Fall?” Sheida asked.
“There was a person who had committed a string of offenses,” Joel said, one cheek twitching for just a moment. “Primarily rape and murder, concentrating on very young females. He would… seduce them in order to get them to drop their shields and then… ensure that they were too overwhelmed to raise them… afterward.” His jaw worked for just a moment and he shook his head angrily.
“I had a hard gene coding on the person, he’d been going by the name Rob Morescue, mostly, but he had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. None of the secondary surveillance systems picked him, or his DNA, up, anywhere. I was able to secure the information that the person had turned himself into a kraken. I had reason to suspect that he was residing somewhere in the deep trenches near the Asur Islands. I had been asking around; there was a pretty large delphino pop
ulation in the area as well as orcas and various fishermen and sailors. At the time of the Fall I had gotten three confirmed sightings of a kraken in the area and was about to perform a search of the depths. Then, with the Fall, I was forced to forego my investigation.”
“And since?” Sheida asked.
“I took a job with one of the local sailors who had converted to commercial fishing,” Travante replied. “In time I was able to secure my own vessel, a small sailing caique. When New Destiny forces took over the island I maintained my cover as a visiting tourist and post-Fall fisherman. When the time was right and the weather looked good I set sail for the mainland.”
“In a fishing caique?” Sheida said, aghast. “How large?”
“Four meters, ma’am,” Joel replied. “I had reason to suspect that some of the orcas that had willingly joined the New Destiny forces had suspicions that I was not all that I had said. Some of my questions, pre-Fall, had apparently been insufficiently circumspect. And, frankly, ma’am, I didn’t think much of New Destiny’s charter or actions. So as soon as I felt it was probable I’d survive, I set sail. It’s not that difficult a sail from the Asur Islands to Norau, provided nothing goes wrong.”
“Charts?” Sheida asked. “Navigation?”
“I was able by that time to secure a compass and had some training from my previous employer at stellar and oceanic current navigation,” Joel said, shrugging as if a three-thousand-kilometer voyage across empty ocean in a small boat was no great feat. “Dorado tended to congregate around the boat so that I had a ready supply of food. I had a large store of water when I left and picked up more from occasional rain showers. I made landfall on the coast of Flora ninety-three days after setting sail, made my way up the coast to the base at Newfell, contacted a person that I had known prior to the Fall and was put in touch with the Freedom Coalition rump of the Council. Upon being summoned by you I traveled by stagecoach and horse to Chian and was ported here.”
