“Here gloom hath
enchantment in beauty’s array,
And whispering
voices are calling away —
Their wooings are
soft as the vision more vain —
I would live in
their empire, or die in their chain.”
The Valley
Cemetery, Mary Baker Eddy
*** *** ***
Both Private
Richard Machine and Master Sergeant Maxwell Locos glared at the offensive stack
of playing cards sitting between them on the thin ply board table. Neither man
made a move, though both contemplated various ways of destroying the double
deck. They well knew the cards weren’t at fault—alcohol and those two women
were to blame—even so, neither could look at the deck without grinding their
teeth and recalling that night two weeks back. As it stood, that night was far
less of a problem than the next morning when they’d woken up buckass naked,
covered in lipstick messages, and holding each other’s johnsons. Without
discussion, they’d agreed to never speak of the incident.
“We don’t play
cards,” Machine said through clenched teeth.
Locos nodded
in agreement while focusing his energy on making the cards spontaneously
combust. When they did not erupt in flames, he sighed, thinking, one day that’ll work.
The lanky old traveler
picked up his cards, slid them back into a suede pouch, and shook his head
sorrowfully, “everyone plays cards until they meet The Girls.” Immediately,
Machine and Locos straightened up in their chairs, briefly locking eyes on each
other. “Yep, that’s what I thought. It’s okay, boys. I’d say your secret is
safe, but the longer you’re down here the more people you’ll meet. And,
everyone in the UG knows about The Girls’ predilection for toying with
newbies.” After he returned the pouch to his knapsack, he walked over to the
kitchenette and pulled a skillet out of the overhead cabinet. “If you won’t
play cards, will you at least have supper with me?” The soldiers once again exchanged
a look, Machine shrugged his assent and Locos nodded. With his back to them, the
traveler did not see, but added, “I don’t mind if you don’t. I’d just as soon
cook for me as for three.”
“We’ll be
happy to sit with you, sir,” Locos said.
“Much
obliged,” the old man said. “It’s been a couple weeks since I had company.
Truth of the matter is, I get tired of hearing my own voice.”
“How long you
been down here?” Machine asked.
“Long as I can
remember,” he answered.
“So, you know
most the people that come through?” Locos asked.
“Most…ha. No,
son,” the old man shook his head causing his 10-inch long, white pony tail to
wag across his back. As he chopped up an onion, he said, “I know everybody
‘cept the newbies. And, now we’ve met, I know you too.” He turned to face the
middle of the bunker, half an onion in one hand and a butcher knife in the
other, “say. That’s rude of me. They call me Bobbert. What do they call you
boys?”
“I’m Dick,”
Machine said, “and that’s Max.” Locos nodded as Machine asked, “you meet any
other newbies, lately?”
“Not in
months,” Bobbert replied, turning back to the business of chopping.
“Oh,” Machine
sighed.
“Don’t sound
so disappointed,” Bobbert began, “used to be newbies every week. But, with
everything going on topside…ain’t been so many these days.” He dropped the
onion into the skillet and turned toward the boys, “people used to come for
adventure,” pointing at them with the butcher knife, he continued, “but, these
days, they’re either running or hunting. Probably impolite to ask, but which
are you?” Locos’ eyes narrowed in warning to Machine, which was all Bobbert
needed, “uh huh, that’s what I thought.” Turning back to the skillet, he said,
“it don’t seem like much, but you’ll have better luck finding whoever it is, if
you looked less like coppers and more like robbers.”
“We’re not
cops,” Machine said defensively.
“No?” Bobbert
asked, “military men then.” He sighed, dropped his shoulders and shook his
head, his pony tail slowly waved again, “I hope you’re not on govie business.”
Without
regarding Locos, Machine kicked back his chair, stood up, and turned to the old
traveler. With anger in his voice, he said, “mister, we ain’t here for the gov
and we ain’t cops. We’re looking for the sumbitch what cut off my buddy’s head
and left him to rot in the desert. I won’t rest ‘til that pothole’s head is on
a spit.” Pacing the small bunker, Machine’s fists were balled and his jaw set.
He wanted nothing more than to rip the entire underground apart, searching for
Kent Wheelock, the piece of shit escapee that murdered Tommy West.
Sitting back
in his chair, Locos dropped his head, closed his eyes and exhaled through his
nose. Whatever the commander had seen in Machine, Locos couldn’t imagine. And,
if this one was hot headed and borderline psycho, he couldn’t help but wonder
how nutso the dead one must have been. At the same time, he recalled the
surface anger that seethed through his pores after he’d lost two of his guys to
an easily preventable engine failure three years earlier when then Lieutenant
Commander Eulice O’Malley had ordered them to launch an unreliable drone. No sense
in explaining the virtue of patience to someone in Machine’s state of mind. Fresh
wounds and anger problems rarely mix well. “Take it easy, Dick,” Locos ordered,
“I told you, we’ll find the bastard.” Three
years, Locos thought, don’t worry
Useless, your day’s coming. Commander’s seen to it. And, I’ll be there, holding
the knife. Standing up, Locos crossed the room, grabbed Machine’s arm and
said, “we’ll get him.”
Machine ripped
his arm away from Locos, growling, “I know.”
Bobbert didn’t
know how to respond, so he kept cooking. The suddenly cramped bunker was
inundated with the aroma of sautéed onions, garlic, and peppers. When he
couldn’t take the silence any longer, he said, “supper’s almost ready.”
“Smells
great,” Locos replied as he sat back down.
In front of
the full-sized mirror, Praeceptor Archeleus Imler stretched his neck, pulling
his shoulders back and sucking his stomach in. He turned left and right, then relaxed,
sighing, “why do I have to wear this dress?”
“It’s a toga praetexta. Besides, Colonel Dagon
already told you,” Tokus Cassius said from her perch on the baseboard of the
bed, “it’s tradition.”
“But, it’s
stupid,” Archel insisted as he spun from the mirror, his purple striped toga swirling
around his knees. “My legs are cold, Cassie. Can’t I just wear my clothes?”
“Nope,” Cassie
laughed, “you’re the king now. You can’t run around in a servant’s rags.”
“If I’m the
king then I can wear whatever I want,” Archel huffed.
“I hate to say
it, but it doesn’t work that way,” Cassie said.
“What’s the
point of being king if I can’t?”
“You’re
joking, right?”
He stuck his
bottom lip out, kicked his foot, and exclaimed, “this sucks.”
“That it does,
little brother,” she giggled.
“Why ya
laughin’?” he asked.
“I have a
little brother. And, he’s a king,” she smiled at Archel. “I always knew I was
regal, but you…you’re like…king.”
“I don’t think
you’re funny,” he moaned.
“No, I guess
you don’t,” she giggled again. “Hurry up. We’ll be late.”
“So,” he
pouted as he crossed the room to the bed and climbed up. “They don’t need me.
It’s not like they care what I think.”
Ignoring his
protestations, she said, “you have responsibilities.” Sliding off the
baseboard, Cassie grabbed his foot and pulled, “you can’t lay down.” Whining,
“Archel, come on,” she braced one foot against the bed and tugged with all her
might.
The boy king
grabbed the opposite side of his mattress and hung on for dear life. Using his
other foot, he pushed at Cassie’s steel grip, “lemme go.”
While
tussling on the edge of the bed, they missed the thrice knock of the Mercury’s
Elite Guard. The ginger ensign filled the doorway, half prepared to charge, and
half amused at the sight. For the first time in weeks, the young king was actually
smiling, and the ensign instantly regretted doing his duty. He cleared his
throat apologetically and said, “my liege, it’s time.”
“Uh, uh,”
Archel stuttered as he and Cassie froze in place.
In the
language of the birds, Cassie whispered, “we got busted,” she let him go and
stumbled back a few steps.
Stifling a
grin, Ensign Osbourne muttered, “makes me miss my brothers.”
“You have
brothers?” Archel asked. He slid off the bed, pushed down his toga, and grabbed
his amiculum from the chair near the door. He glared at Cassie, while asking
Osborne, “they ever make you wear dresses?”
“What?” Ensign
Osbourne asked, before realizing what Archel was talking about. The Merc bent
down, he whispered, “no my liege, that was my sister.” Bending closer, he added,
“the girls all dig formal wear.”
“What? Ew!”
Archel’s eyes scrunched and he turned his head.
“Don’t look at
me,” Cassie said. “I’m not one of them.”
“You say ‘Ew’
now, my liege,” Osborne nodded knowingly. He stood upright, waved a hand toward
the door, “shall we?”
“I guess,”
Archel said as he passed through the doorway, nodding at the Merc standing just
outside his door.
It took them
five minutes to navigate from the Kaiser’s chambers to the conference room
where the War Cabinet had met daily for the last two weeks. As they approached,
Archel grew queasy. The butterflies had become a regular occurrence fluttering
in his belly ever since that first day when his Advisor’s had unanimously voted
for war.
“Praeceptor
Archeleus,” Ensign Osborne announced from the conference doorway.
The Advisors
took their seats, quieting down as the young king entered. When he was also seated,
Cassie took what had become her standard position behind his right shoulder. She
leaned over and whispered, “maybe we’ll get somewhere today.”
He muttered
back, “yeah right.”
General
Willard Tomlyn said, “I call this War Cabinet to order. Do I have a second?”
Standing up,
General Nelson Whistler said, “seconded and so-called.” He tossed a stack of
papers onto the middle of the conference table, “the Force assessment is
complete.” Taking a moment to meet each Advisor’s gaze, Whistler continued, “we
have the capacity to mete out an in-kind assault on one of their border towns. The
question that sits before us: which town offers an equivalent loss?”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” General Sherry
Cranston slapped the table. “Just because we have the ability to murder their
civilians, doesn’t mean that we should do so.” She reached out and tapped the
report, “it also says that even if all the regions enact a draft, we don’t have
the troops to defend against an invasion. Nor can we support an all out attack.
They out number us four to one.” She pulled her hand back, “we have to be
smarter. What can we do that proves we will not stand idly by, and yet, doesn’t
leave us vulnerable to further attacks?”
“We attack one
of their towns,” General Whistler stated. “We’ve been over this, the law calls
for a proportional response, and even though that doesn’t necessarily mean we
should emulate them, it does require us to act.”
“That’s
right,” Jerry deBoca concurred. “They hit us, we hit back harder.”
“And, how do
you suppose we do that? We just going to walk over the mountain?” General
Tomlyn spat.
“Why make it
any more complex?” General Whistler asked.
“Are you
forgetting the Montisi?” Louisa Prescott asked. “Don’t get me wrong. We need to
retaliate. But, the Montisi stand between us. We’ve had enough problems with
them trying to keep trade lines open. Do you really think they’ll let us pass through?”
“We could
ask,” Archel said timidly.
“We have a
treaty with them. In the event of a defense war, they’re required to support us
in battle,” Whistler said.
“Wasn’t there
a treaty with the Danians?” deBoca asked.
“Of course, but
they’ve never been trustworthy,” Whistler stated. “We’ve spent the last two
weeks debating a course of action. The time for decision making is upon us. We
can’t let another day go by without some kind of plan in place.”
“Why don’t we
tell the Montisi what happened?” Archel asked.
“Don’t pretend
like we haven’t been weighing our options,” Cranston spoke over Archel. “I’ve
said it before and I’ll say it again, we’ve got to be smarter. We’re
outnumbered and outgunned.”
Archel sat
back in his chair with a huff.
Cassie placed
a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “this is the time to watch and learn.”
Peering up at
her, he snorted once, and then turned his attention back to his bickering
Advisors. He couldn’t help but wonder if all government meetings went like
this, how did anything ever get done?
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