Thurston halted within arm’s reach. Their eyes met for half a minute or so, and then he extended his hand. Rudi shook it.
“That was damned quick work,” the Boise ruler said. “You saved my life there, you and your man . . . and saved my sons, too,” he went on, confirming Rudi’s guess. He glanced at them. “Martin, Frederick . . . Captain Thurston and Lieutenant Thurston, respectively.”
Martin was the older; he extended his hand too, and then Frederick did as well. The younger son was grinning.
“Pretty fancy shooting,” he said, and touched Edain’s longbow with a finger. “That yew tree didn’t die in vain!”
His older brother was more sober. “And how the hell did the Prophet get men into the presidential guard detail ?” he snapped.
His father made a quelling gesture. “We’ll have to find out. They were ready to strike without a chance in hell of escaping, too . . . and at a guess, this whole attack was aimed at giving them an opportunity. Goddamn, I thought the Change at least got rid of suicide killers. Wish we’d taken one alive.”
He turned back to Rudi: “I now owe you two a considerable debt,” he said. “Enough for an escort to the New Deseret border, no questions asked—but this area’s not safe, with the Prophet’s cavalry loose in it. We’ll return to Boise. You need to do some planning and I need to do some investigating. Maybe some of the Cutters know what’s going on.”
A glance back at his frozen command group. “And that was some fancy shootin’, given the angles and the time you had.”
A few yards away, a Boise officer who’d been question ing a wounded Cutter swore and jerked his head back. The man had bitten off his own tongue, and spit it at the questioner in a spray of blood as he bent to hear an answer. He was laughing with a thick gobbling sound when a soldier jammed a spearhead through his throat; then he choked, kicked and died.
“What shall we do with the others, Mr. President?” an officer said, white faced with shock at the assassination attempt but too disciplined to babble.
Thurston removed his helmet and sighed, rubbing a hand across his dense cap of tight kinked hair; he looked his age then. “We’re heading back to Boise. We’ll take them along. They can talk, or they can join the infrastructure maintenance battalions. Have their wounded treated as soon as ours are OK.”
Then he looked over at Rudi and Edain. “I’ve got some good archers,” he said, to the younger Mackenzie this time. “But none like that. I could use a longbow corps; maybe you could teach some of my men if you’re interested in a job. . . . What’s so funny?”
The last was a snap that dampened the smile on Edain’s face. Still, he was a free clansman of the Mackenzies, and he spoke boldly.
“I was just thinking of how my father trained me, General.”
At his raised brow, the young man went on: “When I was six, he gave me a stave cut to my size. I’d hold it out until my arm ached . . . and if I let it droop then he’d wal lop my backside. I learned to hold it as long as he liked . . . so then he gave me a thicker stave. When I got a real bow, I practiced an hour a day and longer on weekends, and that’s not counting archery classes at school; I learned to care for my string, my bow, my arrows, to cut my own feathers and fletch my own shafts. I practiced shooting in calm, breeze, and strong wind, at still marks, moving marks, targets on the flat and in the air, and dropping fire on hidden ones, and all of them while I was standing . . .or kneeling . . . or running . . . or jumping.”
Thurston looked as if he’d like to interrupt, but Edain continued: “Even shooting blindfolded at a target that rattled! Not to mention hunting. I dropped a running buck through thick brush at a hundred paces the year I turned thirteen, and he said I just might make a bowman worthy of the name. At sixteen I nailed a squirrel to a tree at the same range and he allowed that sure, I’d gone and done it. And that, General Thurston, sir, is how you make a Mackenzie archer!”
A couple of Thurston’s soldiers looked alarmed at his insolence, even busy as they were. The general’s own frown gave way to an unwilling grin, and his younger son matched the expression.
“Well, that put me in my place. Sometimes I’m still not used to the way some things take so long to learn these days.”
Rudi nodded to himself. He’d noticed that about people who’d been fighting men before the Change. Evidently guns had been easy to learn well, easier even than a crossbow.
“Wait a minute,” Thurston went on. “What’s your last name, son? The real one, not the Mackenzie part.”
“Aylward.”
“You’re Sam Aylward’s kid?” Thurston said. “Well, no wonder.”
“You know my father, sir?”
Edain sounded half-glad, half disappointed—he’d been living in that shadow all his life, and here it was a month’s travel from home. Rudi sympathized; he knew what it was like to have famous parents. In his case it was worse; his were legends on both the spear and cauldron side.
“I met him in ’ninety-one,” Thurston said, animated for a moment. “On a mission in the Gulf. And then he dropped in to Fort Lewis back in ’ninety-eight, just be fore the Change . . . and I heard of him afterward. Ayl ward the Archer, eh? No wonder, then. Wish to hell he’d ended up with me and not the flakes . . . er, the Mackenzies.”
“You know, I love my dad,” Edain muttered, as the lord of Boise turned away and began a rattle of orders to his waiting subordinates. “But there are times I get bloody sick of hearing about Aylward the Archer.”
“Cheer up,” Rudi said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Think of all the years you’ll be Aylward the Archer.”
From his expression, Edain was—and then suddenly his face fell as he realized that would mean his father wasn’t around anymore.
Chapter Eighteen
Approaching Boise,
Idaho Provisional Capital,
United States Of America
June 10, CY23/2021 A.D.
It was an hour or so until sunset and the Boise road still headed northwest, though they’d turn east to enter the city itself. Shadows were beginning to fall around them, though the upper parts of the town walls and their towers were still brightly lit in the middle dis tance, and the white and scarlet fabric of the three teth ered hot-air balloons that hung several thousand feet above was even brighter. Higher still light flashed briefly from the canopy of a glider.
“It’s all so . . . tidy,” Rudi said, looking around and blinking in the bright summer sun. “Not a board loose or a building unpainted or one poor gasping weed left to propagate its kind.”
Truck gardens occupied most of the land this close to the city, watered by canals and spinning windmills. There was a scattering of barns and sheds, and things like chicken coops and pigpens adding their pungencies to turned wet earth and compost, but not many houses close to the city proper—as usual, people close enough to walk out from the walls lived inside them. The pleasant tinkle and chug of running water sounded, and plenty of folk were out tending the vegetables and berry bushes and small orchards of apples and peach and cherry with hand tools and horse-drawn machines, or harvesting greens and early roots.
Many stopped to wave or shout greetings as the sol diers went by, and some of the closer ones stared at the obvious foreigners.
“So very, very, very tidy.”
Rudi spoke with a mixture of mild scorn and grudging admiration. Mackenzies were farmers, and good ones, and that meant that they worked very hard indeed and admired hard workers and a neat job. But they stopped when they’d done enough to get the job done; it wasn’t as if there was ever a scarcity of things that needed doing about a croft, and if you had any time to spare you spent it on dancing or a festival or a little fancywork like carving a god-post. Around here . . .
“You noticed?” one of his half sisters said dryly.
“Who could be missing it?” Rudi replied, his tone equally pawky.
“Yeah, you’re riding along a road and you drop an apple core here and three people scold you and poin
t to the waste bin,” Ingolf confirmed.
“They don’t feed apple cores to their pigs?” Edain said, puzzled.
“Yeah, but you’ve got to put it in the waste bin first. The official waste bin. That’s the Approved Procedure. And if you think this is neat and tidy, wait until we get into town. The punishment for drunk-and disorderly is going around sweeping the streets up after the horses and oxen, with some sergeant kicking your ass while you do it.”
The suburbs here around the modern city had been torn down with a thoroughness Rudi had never seen anywhere, even the foundation pads of the houses bro ken up; a last few metal frame buildings were being disassembled as they passed through, with bundles of girders lowered to the ground by cables and stacked on big ox-wagons to be hauled away for smithies and forges and fortress construction. The manicured look of the gardens was a little unusual. The walls ahead, though . . .
“Mount Angel is stronger,” Father Ignatius said stoutly.
“It is that. On the other hand, it’s also on the top of a four-hundred-foot hill,” Rudi pointed out. “The which is a pimple in a plain of exceeding flatness. This is not.”
Boise was on the east bank of its river; that ran in a blue band north-south, with three bridges crossing it and mountains rising not far beyond. The walls weren’t just tall. Old high-rises had been built into them and infilled with concrete as well. Rudi was used to the giant struc tures of the ancients, but most of them were dead. Seeing them worked into something as natural and modern as the outer curtain wall of a fortress-town was eerie, and it gave the defenses an odd alien angular look.
Traffic was thick on the road; carts with farm produce, everything from baskets of eggs cradled in straw to bur lap sacks of potatoes and casks of wine and flats of early lettuce and green onions and radishes; bigger wagon trains with trade goods in bales and bundles and barrels; people on foot and horseback and an occasional flock of sheep or herd of cattle. They all pulled aside for the general’s party; news of their coming had been flashed ahead by heliograph and semaphore-telegraph stations, running from hilltop to hilltop.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t like to try to storm it,” Ingolf said.
Rudi’s eyes flicked ahead to Thurston. There wasn’t much of a fuss over the ruler’s arrival; he’d seen that the man didn’t like pomp. As he watched, two riders came out of the gate and down the cleared lane to meet them, saluting briskly.
“Mr. President,” the first said.
He was in uniform too, but a blue one with NATIONAL POLICE sewn on the shoulder, a plain-looking man in his thirties with a short-clipped mustache. The younger man beside him was in the camouflage cloth of Boise’s army; his helmet hid his hair, but from the freckles and pale complexion Rudi thought it must be as red as his own mother’s. The first man looked at Thurston, his eyes flicking to Rudi and the others.
“They’re cleared,” the ruler said. “I know they’re most assuredly not out to kill me . . . which is more than I can say for my own guards.”
That brought a wince. “I thought you should know, sir, we found out how those men were infiltrated into the guard detail. We and Military Intelligence.”
“Interservice cooperation. Wonders never cease,” Thurston said dryly. “Go on, Commander Lamont.”
“They were supposedly rotated down by Colonel Winder in Lewiston.”
“Supposedly?”
The younger man beside the officer of police spoke up. “Three men were sent. Someone intercepted them on the way here, presumably killed them, and substituted ringers. Ringers who looked fairly similar and had extremely well forged papers . . . well-briefed ringers, too.”
“They couldn’t have hoped to keep that up long,” Thurston said thoughtfully. “This isn’t a very big country, not yet. But it nearly worked. Get me a report on procedures to make sure this doesn’t happen again by ten hundred hours tomorrow. And start working on the real question.”
“Sir?” the two officers spoke almost in unison.
“Why do they want to kill me? Even if it worked, the vice president would take over—and Moore would de clare war on them immediately. Which I’m now going to do anyway. So there’s no upside for them, and they didn’t even try to hide the fact that they were involved. Get to work on it. Why is always more important than how, in the long run.”
They saluted and turned away. Rudi cleared his throat.
“Your guards aren’t with you for long, then, sir?”
The ruler of Boise nodded. “Candidates for our OCS—Officer Candidate School—spend some time in my presidential guard detail. It gives me a chance to evaluate them.”
Father Ignatius spoke: “Someone knows an uncom fortable amount about your security precautions, General. Specifically, the Prophet does.”
“Yeah, padre, they do,” Thurston said.
His eldest son broke in. Martin, Rudi reminded himself, as the man spoke.
“Sir, perhaps it would be better if you went to the Old Prison for now. It’s easier to secure the perimeter there.”
Thurston chuckled. “Captain, the day I lock myself up to avoid assassins, you may move for my impeachment. Besides which, given what happened . . . what if I’m locking the potential assassins up in there with me?
“It’s not actually a prison,” he went on to the oth ers, nodding southward. “It was, once, long before the Change. Good solid stone built compound, and we’ve improved it since, a couple of miles south of town.”
“The . . . guests . . . then, sir?” his son went on. “The sixth regiment is there—more than enough for security, and I’ll vouch for them.”
The general president’s eyebrows went up: “You weren’t commander of the sixth, last time I looked, Martin, just a junior officer.” Then to his guests: “Any takers?”
Rudi shook his head. “No, thank you, sir, if it’s all the same.” He smiled. “I’ve a fancy to see this town of yours.”
“I should see to the sixth myself, then, sir,” Thurston’s son went on.
“You’re still not regimental commander.”
The younger man grinned. “No, sir. But I am in com mand of B Company, Sixth Infantry Regiment, and it’s not fair to let my platoon leaders and company sergeant carry the can this long. Particularly with so many new men.”
“Very well.”
“Give my regards to Mother, sir.”
“And mine to Juliet, Captain.”
Thurston’s elder son turned his horse aside, followed by a pair of others. The tall gates on the other side of the bridge were open; a squad did a neat maneuver as they rode through the gloomy thickness of the wall. Rudi looked around as they rode eastward towards what looked like an interior citadel, with a big building with a gilded dome catching the setting sun not far from it.
Much was what you’d expect from any modern city; pre Change buildings modified to new uses, or new ones built to infill empty spaces that wasted precious space within the fortifications. Ground floors were stores or workshops with their proprietors living above, though less spilled onto the sidewalks than even Corvallis’s strict laws enforced. There was a public library, and a fair assortment of houses of worship: Catholic, varieties of Protestant including some he didn’t recognize, a Mor mon temple of some size and a small Covenstead that had him smiling at the sign of the Triple Moon.
Thurston’s younger son pointed out features—the big silo shaped granaries where blindfolded oxen turned capstans that raised barley and wheat by geared screws, the waterworks and sewage plant with the attached bio gas plant that provided illumination and purified sludge for the farms, the railroad station. . . .
The clothes on the people were very old fashioned, though, even in new cloth: jeans and T-shirts and jack ets, knee-length skirts and even the odd collar and tie. People moved briskly, as Corvallans did, but without the animated knots of impromptu argument you always saw there. There were no street musicians or beggars as there would be in Portland or Newberg or Astoria in Association territory, and no rickshaws, thou
gh plenty of bicycles and pedicabs. And none of the street shrines and little touches Sutterdown had.
Plus there were a lot of uniforms. And big, colorful posters on four-sided hoardings at crossroads. The process was stone plate lithography; he’d seen examples in Corvallis advertising this and that, and in Portland for tournaments and saints’ days and proclamations from the Regent. The themes here were quite different. . . .
One he saw nearly every time showed five figures—a muscular soldier in the harness of a Boise regular, shield and sword in hand, an equally muscular male farmer or laborer with a spade, a woman with a pruning hook, another in a white coat with a test tube and a mother holding an infant. They all glared forward with square-jawed purpose, striding together in unison, and a legend beneath read in big block letters:
We’re Building America with Our Sweat!
Defending It with Our Blood!
Don’t Get In Our Way!
Others exhorted people to buy Reconstruction Bonds, whatever those were, or to attend night schools, whatever those were—he suspected they weren’t much like a Mackenzie Moon School—or most frequently of all to vote in the Regional Representation Referendum, whatever that was. The visual images all had that charac teristic style although they were obviously by many different hands; even the idealized farm cottages managed to look muscular and determined, somehow.
He wasn’t all that surprised. Most communities he knew had their own underlying unity of style. You could tell Mackenzie artwork, even when it was something as utterly practical as a wooden lever and stump for break ing flax—there’d be a little knotwork on the end of the handle, or a Triple Moon.
“And what would a Regional Representation Refer endum be, General? I understand the three words, but put them together and it’s a mystery.”
Thurston was deep in thought. His younger son answered instead:
“Whether we should elect a new Congress and Senate, locally, since we can’t exactly do it nationwide. Fa . . . the president just realized a while ago that the ones we’ve got are all going to die of old age pretty soon.”
The Sunrise Lands Page 45
