IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
II: Tests of Fire and Blood
Chapter 11 A Meeting of Officers
Monday, April 27, 2708 (Today I become a
general. I brush out my long, blonde
hair with the volumizer brush, inspect my part critically to make sure that no
roots show, and then fluff the curls a little more before putting on the cap
with just a hint of a jaunty angle, not enough for them to call me on it, just
enough to irritate the old fogeys, and remind the young fogeys that today, for
the first time in Charadocian history, they promote a woman to the highest
rank. I spray on my favorite honeysuckle
perfume, then paint on the blood-red lipstick, and smile for the mirror.) Ugh—that stench! I close the windows of the infirmary, one by
one. All over the campus pots of
putrified urine boil down to a paste, and it smells horrible. Just one phase of refining phosphorus. Amazing how so many illiterates know
intimately the chemistry of making bombs. Yet I have other things on
my mind than bad odors. Cyran has
invited me to confer with his officers.
"Zizi should come in for a wound check today," I tell
Malcolm. "Make sure she's keeping
the stump clean--she's been on goat-herd duty since becoming
ambulatory." I survey the
closet--we're well-stocked on clean sheets, at least. "See if she's got any words of
encouragement for the newer amputees--she's had time to adjust, I think." "I know, I
know--you've gone over everything twice already. Go to the meeting." (I sashay out into the bright autumn light, returning salutes,
feeling absolutely radiant, a sun that no one can hold under a cloud any
longer. I feel, in fact, the clouds of
centuries dissipating before me with every click, click, click of my boots,
each step precisely in front of the other, as on a catwalk or a tightrope,
maximizing the feminine swing. And people have come out to watch me pass, to photograph the
moment for posterity, or just to witness.
I recognize some of them—friends, supporters, and my opposition,
too. For some my promotion provides the
juiciest scandal that they’ve seen in their careers. For others, a ray of hope.) Outside, I head towards the
old lecture-hall and note others headed in the same direction, and some of them
I know. Romulo, the white-haired lad
with the bullet-scarred cheek--so he's one of the Captains, huh? (I can
get as ugly as it takes, Cyran. I’ve got
no illusions anymore.) Alysha, of course. (He’ll
forgive me for being too smart for my own good.
He always does, eventually. I do
it to save his life, too.) No sign of Marduk. Of course.
I think briefly of our last exchange; my cuts itch, but they don't much
bother me now, shallow after all, thank God! Majid limps our way, using
a staff to help him walk with his cast; I treated him for that broken leg. (I
hope, I hope that Cyran puts that sweet-talking, story-telling crooner under my
command—he’ll find out that nobody
gets away with making fox-eyes at my girl!)
No war wound, that--some stunt, rather, as if we didn't have enough
legitimate injuries to treat without adolescent foolery to contend with. Stupid hothead--and he's one of those in
charge? I can see why they promote me
barely after freeing me--the biggest shortage that this ragtag army suffers is
one of maturity. Others I don't know show
up, too, like that nervous young man trying desperately to grow a beard, who
ducks into the cool shade of the doorway before me. (What’s she doing here?
Didn’t they put the chain on her right after letting me go?) (“What’s she doing here?” I want them
to say, my soon-to-be peers, right before I show them, right before I dazzle
them with my brilliance!) Or the bronze and radiant
youth within, his limbs rudely bared, wearing only an open vest and cut-off shorts,
no shirt at all, muscularly defiant of all the distinctions of sleeves. (All my
mothers, all my fathers, I feel you in the air, ever around me--I bask here in
your love!) He has a shimmering mane
of polished copper hair, not much different from his well-tanned skin, already
ensconced in a seat high up in the great bowl of the amphitheater, sprawled
joyously with his feet propped on the back of the seat below. Or that beefy, scar-faced
person lower down, who returns my glance with a scowl. (Mom didn't think it'd matter one way or
the other to the johns when she sold me to feed the rest--my big bones, my hair
chopped short for business, my broken nose and the scar that sprawls across it
from cheek to cheek above my surly mouth—oh yeah, I know exactly what I look
like.) (They do call me beautiful;
I’ve overheard them. I enter the old
hall like dawn entering night, feeling my own radiance, feeling the swing of my
hips with every step, making sure that not one of these men standing in the shadows
can overlook my glow.) "The name's
Lucinda," she says, not smiling. (Yeah--I
am female, damn you.) "Deirdre." I give her a nod and take one of those seats
with the little half desks attached in front.
(You don't think I saw how you studied me, discreetly you thought,
trying to guess my gender, wondering if maybe I'm another like our leader?) I fold the desk out of the way; it wouldn't
do to take notes on what we plan to discuss here. The radiant youth snaps up
in a swift yet fluid motion, then jumps a whole row before coming down to stand
over me. "Don't glare so,
Lucinda--if Cyran speaks for her she must be all right." She softens just a little as he extends his
golden-brown hand to me. "The
name's Kief." His hand feels warm
and strong. "Pleased to meet you,
Kief." (They call me Kief, at
least, though I don’t know who named me that.
I don't remember any specific mother or father in the usual sense. I just don't know. Guerilla fighting I do know, and many lovely
guerilla mothers, and brave guerilla fathers.
What else do I need?) I take an aisle seat down
low and close to the front. Smoke hangs
thick in the air, settling into eerie layers, but the aroma spreads to all
levels. When Alysha offers me a
cigarette I accept in sheer self-defense. (I move through the smoke of those privileged to indulge tobacco
on an occasion such as this, and my smile cuts through the haze like
light. I put my hand on the book, and
recite, without prompt, “I, Layne Estelle Aliso, do solemnly swear that I will
support and defend the laws and traditions of the Charadoc against all enemies,
foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same;
that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose
of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the
office on which I am about to enter.” And then, as General Dashang pins on the badge of my rank, there where
I normally never let a man touch me in public, the applause breaks
out--perfunctory in some quarters to the edge of rudeness, almost too
enthusiastic in others, and I find that I like both kinds. And now he adds a star to each shoulder—only
one each, but I have just begun. I turn
at precisely the right speed to cause my medals to tinkle against each other,
and beam at them all, friend and foe alike—perhaps especially the foes.) Cyran enters the room,
decked out in extra necklaces like a chestful of medals, bangles clashing
softly with a martial sound, and e prowls the pit of the amphitheater in that
restless-cat way that e has, one foot precisely in front of the other like a
panther on a bough. "If you don't
already know the situation," e says, "I'll tell you now." E stops in the middle, almost at attention. "You, my fine, brilliant officers, have
managed to concentrate almost all of our forces in one place--one place already
compromised in security before you even got here and added to our
troubles." E laughs suddenly and
everyone breathes again in one huge sigh.
"At least I can say how gratifying I find it to see, with my own
eyes, how well our recruiting has progressed." Then hir face hardens again. "But I can also see what should be
obvious to you as well--if you don't lie to yourselves." Pace, pace, pace. "While our numbers have grown vast for
guerilla work, they don't add up to much for conventional war... "Yet you have brought conventional war down upon our
heads!" e shouts. "Marching
in on us all at once like this, with tanks hot on your scent behind you. Never mind numbers--look at our
weaponry. Knives and pitchforks, scythes
and shovels, maybe a gun here and there, and not enough ammunition to go around
for those. What do you suggest we throw
at these tanks--our half-sized bodies?" "Molotov
cocktails," Alysha says dryly.
"Guns can't take out a tank, anyway, but Molotovs can." Cyran grins suddenly like
sun breaking in through storm.
"Thank you, Alysha. Thank
you once again for your sense of perspective." Kief calls out, “And guns can
take out a tank. If you aim just right,
you can knock the treads off the gears, to stop it or make it go in circles, at
least.” “Thank you, my marksman!”
Cyran hails the youth, and Kief inclines his head, smiling. “Yes, we always have hope, once we look for
it.” E paces the circle, looking to each
of us in turn. "We'll make do--we
always do. And we'll come up with
something better than conventional armies can with their regimented
minds." Why do I get the feeling
that the three of them rehearsed this ahead of time? Could it be the lingering odor of phosphorus-production
penetrating the smoke? E stops before the nervous
young man. "Yet still we need arms
for those who cover our bombers." E
nods towards the scar-cheeked boy.
"I can thank Romulo and his band for getting us revenue for ammo,
at least, but guns sell dear." He
turns again to the young man before him.
"Any suggestions?" The
face goes pale behind its ghost of a beard.
“Miko?" The Adam's apple moves as
he swallows before saying, "Yes. I
do know where we've--they've--hidden the nearest armory." Cyran's gaze doesn't let up on him till he
says, "Yes. I could lead you
there--to your deaths, if you feel in a hurry to die.” I try not to roll my eyes. “It's that well-guarded." (And why not? Who could get close to me and not perish?) The beefy girl says, "We don't die that easily, so don’t go
trite on us. If the devil can find a way
in and out, then so can I." Now I
can’t help but wince. The few literates
among these kids must get their inspiration from comic books. Of course. "Ah, Lucinda--how I've
missed you!" Cyran says warmly.
"Do you still have thieves in your troop?" "Pros in one thing,
pros in another." "Excellent! If the common run of police guarded the
armory I'd worry, but soldiers know how to keep out soldiers, not
thieves." E paces enthusiastically. "I'll need a couple of your best. Why fight for what we can grab by
stealth?" "Not that we can't
fight when we need to," the scarred girl growls. Now Cyran stands before
me. "And you. Deirdre Keller. What does a highbrow lady of the Tilián know
about theft?" "I've taken classes on
Breaking and Entering, if that's what you're asking." "Classes." E mocks me with just a snort of a laugh. "I suppose you have no experience." "Of course I do,"
I say coolly. "You may have heard
of the Duerlongh revolution? I stole
guns for that." But I didn't use
them, not myself. "And in Camelot,
a little country you may never have heard of, I stole the signet of office back
from the usurper for the rightful king."
I don’t add that I once rustled a horse as a kid; somebody’s got to sound mature, here. E nods, rubbing hir strong
little chin. "Then you'll go as
Lucinda's other lieutenant, along with Kief.
I will put Kiril and Lufti under your command--you seem to have a good
rapport with them." "But--they just got
here! They've hardly had any training at
all!" And they just reach the
height of my heart. Kief drawls, "How do
you think we learn?" Cyran glowers up at me in
my seat. "The baptism of blood must come swiftly after initiation. Isn't that right, Miko?" Miko nods, so pale he looks sick with
it. "If they pass that test--if
they survive--we may consider them worthy of further training." Then e reaches up and squeezes my knee. "Lead them well, Deirdre, and they'll
name a granddaughter after you." I
nod, feeling a little pale, myself.
Charadocians never name children for the living. E resumes hir pacing along
the arc of the amphitheater. "In
any case, the time has come to fan out our medics among the troops. After you help raid the armory, Deirdre, you
will join Lucinda's forces. You will
treat the sick and wounded wherever you find them, kill anyone who stands in
your way, and wreak as much havoc as you can on the Enemies of the
People." E turns to others. "Rashid can travel with your band,
Majid. Makhliya will help Romulo, as she
has always done, now with some medical training under her belt. Malcolm and Aron cannot mobilize, not on the
roads we travel, so they'll take care of the casualties at Home Base." Before e can change the
subject I blurt, "May I request two others for my troop?" E turns back and stares
coolly. "You may request. Who?" "Damien and Kanarik." I look at Majid, who has hated Damien since
the day he arrived, ever since his girlfriend took a shine to the boy. Majid would quickly make cannon-fodder out of
Damien. "Ah, the bard and the
dancer. You crave entertainment along
the way?" "Morale can keep
troops upright even when food and ammunition fail." "He did do that,"
Alysha put in. "When we marched,
nearly starving, he kept us going with his songs." "A war ends," I
say, "when one side has seized all the morale from the other side. Land and power follow, but cannot by
themselves suffice." "She's got a
point," Kief calls down. "I
have seen it--even when all the soldiers die, if a song survives them, their
ghosts carry on their cause to the next generation." I conclude, "You can't
really kill an army that has a bard."
I cross my arms and try to look like I know what I'm doing. Cyran addresses
Lucinda. "You have final say. I have to tell you that they're as raw as
they come; ill-trained and not yet baptized in blood." "On the other
hand," I tell her, "Damien lives in his own tales and doesn't seem to
notice that he's scared till after a crisis ends. And you won't find a soldier in our midst
more nimble than Kanarik--she should take to thieving naturally." "Your call, Lucinda." Cyran stares up at her. For a moment she just sits
there, picking at the fungus-cracked toes that poke from her sandals. Suddenly she grins and says, "Now you
know I've always been a lunatic for music, Cyran. And dancers have a soft spot in my heart." "Then it's
settled. Now, in other business: I want as many troops as possible moved out of here before the tanks
arrive--preferably to bedevil the enemy’s flanks before they even get
here. I'll keep only enough of a force
at base to make them think it's still a target.
They'll fancy that they're penetrating our stronghold, when in fact
we'll simply fold in on them." "And the
infirmary?" I can't help but ask. Cyran stares between us, at
empty desks. "I will call in Father
Man," e says at last. "He will
administer extreme unction to everyone we can't move out. I gave them dignity on their death beds and
some comfort. I can't do any more." E looks darkly on me and says, "I'm
sorry, Deirdre. You worked hard on those
amputations for nothing." "And Malcolm. Malcolm worked hard, too." Hir face goes as pale as
hir pigment allows. "I
know." Then suddenly e claps hir
hands and says, "Well now--the next order of business. Some of you need replacement troops..." |
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