Katella jabs an elbow into my arm.
“Well done back there, Dye!”
I grunt noncommittally. I’ve heard all the “well dones” that I care to. Katella hefts his submachine gun.
“With this thing in my hands and you back in charge, I feel I can really kick butt,” he says.
“Forget about kicking butts,” I say. “Let’s just get ours out of here.”
Katella grins. He hands over my pistol and extra clips.
“I won’t be needing these any more, Commander.”
I shove the items into my jacket pocket. Katella moves in close and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
“That bunch is slowing us down,” he says. “Why don’t the two of us move on ahead?”
I stop walking.
“There’ll be no more talk like that, Airman!”
I’m using the Stilikan voice, low and ominous.
“Yes, Commander,” Katella says.
I glance back at our comrades. They’ve fallen some distance behind and are struggling to make their way over some tangled roots and underbrush. Yes, it would be a lot more convenient to just abandon them …
I dismiss the shameful thought.
“What have you got against Bel?” I ask. “He saved our lives back there.”
Katella lowers his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand, sir.”
“Go bring up the rear, Katella. See that nobody jumps us from behind.”
“Yes, sir.”
He moves back, leaving me alone with my turbulent thoughts. I can scarcely absorb the huge disaster that has befallen us. But it has a favorable side, too; I contemplate that as I trudge along.
***
At last, we arrive at the crossing. It’s a lot farther than I thought, difficult to spot from this side of the river. I actually walk right past it and have to double back. I call a halt.
Grushon and Sipren lower Bel to the ground. He is pale with exhaustion and pain, but he has not uttered a word of complaint. I admire his grit. He badly needs rest; we all do. Once we’re across this barrier we need to find shelter. A dangerous idea is taking shape in my mind, although I cannot yet admit to myself that it is there.
At least we are adequately provisioned. In addition to grenades and ammo clips, our packs contain plenty of combat rations. Again, I experience a pang of anxiety – how did Bel obtain all this stuff? As if the army is going to investigate petty theft in the midst of all this chaos!
“How are you feeling, Bel?” I ask.
A bitter smile crosses his lips.
“Never better. How the hell do I look?”
I try to grin, but it doesn’t sit well on my face. I lower myself to my haunches beside him.
“There are some abandoned farm buildings on the other side of the river,” I say. “We can hole up for a while until you get your strength back.”
Bel nods. “Sounds good, Dye, unless the enemy gets there first.”
“Well ... let’s hope otherwise.”
I stand and stretch myself. Tortured bones snap back into place. The air is better up here, above the dark pool of resentment surrounding Bel.
“All right, lads,” I announce, “twenty minute break! Then we cross this sucker.”
We rest silently, each keeping to his private thoughts. Bel removes a knife from his knapsack and digs compulsively at the ground with it, as if trying to punish the earth for his misfortune. Katella and I are the de facto guards, scanning the area for any trace of the enemy, machine pistols in hand.
Then it’s time to go.
Katella enters the water first. He is an almost comic figure – naked below the waist, holding his clothes and boots in his arms along with his extra knapsack. His skinny rear end glistens in the late afternoon sun.
“Damn, it’s cold!” he protests.
“Keep moving!” I yell. “Watch out for the current.”
He shuffles on, uttering a sharp cry when the water contacts his genitals. Then he’s moving with alacrity through the waist-deep turbulence. We all observe him, scarcely breathing, until he slogs out on the far bank. He fairly runs the last few meters.
“All right, you guys are next,” I command.
Bel hobbles into the water, flanked by Grushon and Sipren. His assistants yelp at the frigid contact, but he remains stoically quiet. They move on.
I’m alone on this shore now, covering our retreat with my submachine gun. Katella is right, the gun gives you an outsized feeling of power. But what good is power when the enemy has vastly more than you?
I wonder if partisans are observing me. There could be an enemy battalion concealed in those trees without me knowing it.
I glance back toward the river. The trio is almost half way across now. Some distance upstream from them, a mighty tree has tumbled into the water, a mass of flotsam tangled in its branches. I wonder idly how long the tree has been there. Did it fall some time ago, undermined by the current, or did a recent explosion knock it down? I don’t remember it from my previous expedition. Then again, fallen trees were the farthest thing from my mind then.
Forget that! my inner voice chides. Keep a sharp lookout!
I scan the woods with painstaking care, straining my eyeballs for any trace of the enemy. I have never felt so alone in my entire life. Then I look back toward my comrades. They reach the opposite bank, and it’s my turn to go.
Nothing has prepared me for the frigid water. It is much worse than when I crossed the last time. The cold autumn nights have left their mark, and who knows where this damnable stream originates? It could be vomiting out from a subterranean lair of the dead. The water is an ugly brownish-yellow.
I move quickly, trying to still my chattering teeth. I want to cry out obscenities, but the enemy might be listening. Worst of all, there is no one covering my back. Were there partisans on the shore behind me, my friends could not reach them with submachine fire.
Why didn’t Bel obtain a sniper rifle? He seems to have remembered everything else.
I’d thought that I would have an easy time crossing, but my strength is waning fast. What’s wrong with me? A painful cramp is developing in one calf; my knees ache horribly and both my feet are numb with cold.
Still, I’m making good progress. I imagine my comrades on the far bank pulling me in like a snagged fish. Just a few steps more, then a few more after that. Upstream, the fallen tree can no longer contain the mass of flotsam backed up behind it. Its branches release their burden, and it comes my way in a ghastly, rotating mass.
Corpses!
I quicken my pace, nearly losing my footing on the sandy bottom. A half dozen bodies are heading right for me like a welcoming committee of the damned. They roll about in the swirling current doing their mad dance. Is Albers’ headless torso among them?
Don’t panic!
I’m practically running now. A corpse brushes against me, almost knocking me over. Its dead face rolls over in the current and gapes up at me, burning a nightmare image into my memory. Then the body swirls away. The last bit of my sanity follows it downstream.
I lumber along, a mindless savage. Breath gasps in through my mouth. The water is mid-thigh now, then knee deep. Katella sloshes out and escorts me the final distance.
I flop down on the shore and cover my face with both hands. My comrades stand around me, uncertain. I manage a feeble moment of bravado:
“Piece of cake.”
***
I try to reassemble my shattered dignity as we continue our march. I can’t help asking myself how Bel would have handled an encounter with those waterborne corpses. He’d have taken it in stride, I conclude, regarding the bodies as nothing more than a potential hazard, like any other wreckage.
But who can say? Anyone can be heroic when he’s not in the thick of things. Bel had two comrades with him and another one guarding his back, while I was totally alone.
My mood is foul and defensive. It improves a bit when we reach the devastated farm toward dusk. The last tim
e I passed by here, the farm house was still intact, now it is gutted by fire. The barn is still fairly undamaged, though, and we choose to settle in there. We climb into the hay to sleep.
Despite his injuries, Bel insists on taking the first watch.
42. Found
Bel has started a good recovery by morning. Fortified with nutritious combat rations, his ribs, ankle, and knee solidly bandaged, he looks worlds better. Probably better than me. My night’s rest was tormented by images of the dead trooper bobbing in the water and by Albers’ decapitated body lying at my feet. Of all the horrors I’ve witnessed, his death is the worst.
Three of the original Raptor Aces are now slain – Bezmir, Orpad, Albers – along with the Blue Ice lads. I cannot help wondering who will be next. Bel seems to have insight on my torment. We are the only ones in the barn now, as the others are out prowling the farm.
“So, Dytran ...” he says in an offhand way, “did you see what happened to Albers?”
“Did you?”
Bel shakes his head and pats his injured knee.
“I was too busy with my own problems. I must have passed out for a bit.”
I hesitate. The last thing I want to do is talk about Albers, but I know the necessity of getting it out in the open – the same way it was necessary for Bekar to talk about Stilikan’s murder.
“He took a round,” I say, “probably a 30mm cannon shell. There was ... nothing left of his head.”
Bel turns a shade paler. “Ohhh, that’s bad!”
The barn is silent for a long moment, then:
“Albers didn’t really belong with us,” Bel says. “He wasn’t tough enough for fighters.”
“That’s true,” I agree.
Although a competent pilot, Albers was too indecisive and meek to handle combat situations. I realize that we had all regarded him lightly, treating him with borderline contempt, sometimes. I regret that I ignored him back in the APC, but how was I to know it would be my last contact with him?
“At least he had the brass to show up,” Bel says. “Not like those four who stayed behind. They’re probably laughing their asses off at us right now.”
“Could be.”
But somehow I doubt that. The draft age has been lowered, and the lads might well be in an infantry unit getting ground under with the other foot soldiers.
“What’s our next move, Commander?” Bel asks.
“Like you said, we keep going west. Maybe we can reconnect with some of our own people.”
Bel grunts sarcastically. “Yes, didn’t that work out great the last time? We’re lucky ‘our people’ didn’t shoot us on the spot.”
Bel speaks truths I don’t want to hear. I do not respond.
“I’m telling you, Dye, we’re better off on our own. The ‘glorious army’ has degenerated into a mob.”
“That may be,” I say, “but if the partisans find us, a bullet from our own guys would seem like a tender mercy.”
Bel’s mouth tightens. It’s his turn to acknowledge cruel facts now. He opts for a change of subject.
“You’d make better progress without me,” he says.
“What?”
“You heard, Dye. Why don’t you move on? In a day or two, I’ll be fit to walk on my own.”
“In a day or two, this place could be crawling with the enemy,” I say.
“Not much we can do about that, is there?” Bel says.
“I’m not leaving you, Bel, so don’t say anything more about it!”
My voice is more severe than I intended. Is it because I actually did consider abandoning him at one point? But I rejected that course of action, so why do I feel guilty? Besides ... well ... damn it!
“Very well, then,” Bel says, “you’re the one in charge.”
“And cut that out, too!” I snap. “I didn’t blow up the APC. You had your moment in the sun.”
I’m being grossly unfair and know it.
“Sorry, Bel, I-I didn’t mean that – ”
“Yes, you did,” Bel replies coolly. “It’s all right, Dytran, I don’t hold it against you.”
I’m angry enough to smack him. If he wasn’t all crippled, maybe I would. But some words of wisdom arise in my memory from, of all people, my father:
“Don’t ever get mad at somebody for speaking the truth.”
Of course, the context was totally different. Papa was only defending some perverse opinion he was expressing. Still, my anger vanishes like a soap bubble.
It is replaced by a flash of insight: I’ve never really had a father, just a violent, terrifying drunk who lived with us for a while and abused Mama. I’ve been looking for a replacement all my life – Stilikan, Bekar. And now Bel?
The idea is absurd. We are the same age, he’s no father figure. But he does have the infuriating older brother superiority that Stilikan so often displayed. Yes, like it or not, Beltran is my brother ... and, therefore, he deserves to be let in on my secret plans.
Without thinking about what I’m doing, I begin to tell him.
“Stilikan wasn’t killed in combat,” I say.
“Oh?” Bel’s eyebrows go up in surprise.
“He wasn’t even injured, and he bailed out safely. I learned that direct from his wingman.”
A dark frown creases Bel’s face; his eyes burn at me from within it.
“What happened to him, Dye?”
“The partisans got him – that’s what happened,” I say. “They tortured him to death.”
The dreadful words have exhausted me. My knees feel weak, and I plop down onto the straw. Everything’s happened so fast! A moment ago I was in tight control.
Bel grips my arm. The pain and sympathy in his eyes only worsen my anguish.
“Oh, my God,” he says. “Oh, God ...”
Steely hate rises in my heart, giving me renewed strength.
“The bastards who did it are not far from here,” I say. “Their base is out by that large ruined area. I saw them when I was shot down.”
“And you want revenge, don’t you?” Bel says.
“Yes – more than anything in this world.”
Bel releases my arm and reclines back into the straw.
“This sure is something to consider, Dytran.”
Shouts coming from outside wrench me from my misery. I seize my gun and dash through the door.
***
Grushon and Sipren are dragging somebody toward the barn. It looks like a girl, maybe fifteen or so, but it’s hard to tell the age of these slobes. A small boy follows along, clinging to her. Katella brings up the rear, machine pistol at the ready.
“What the hell’s going on?” I say.
“We found them hiding in the cellar of the house, sir,” Grushon says.
“That’s wonderful!” I take my anger out on the ground, kicking up a spray of dirt. “That’s ... just what we need!”
“Yes, sir,” Grushon says.
The little boy is clearly terrified by my outburst. He clings more tightly to the girl and stares up at me with the same wounded fawn look I’d seen in the last slobe boy – the one killed by Eagle-eye.
My fury abates. I try to recall the handful of phrases we learned during training.
“Does anybody know some slobe talk?” I ask. “Can we find out who these people are?”
To my utter amazement, Katella approaches the girl and begins speaking the enemy language to her. He sounds fluent, as far as I can make out. The girl replies in clipped phrases. She is frightened, but her manner carries defiance.
Katella turns toward me.
“This is their family farm,” he says. “They are the surviving children.”
I gather my wits to commence an interrogation.
“What are their names, how old are they?” I ask.
Another exchange in the harsh slobe language, Katella translates.
“The girl, Trynka, is almost sixteen. Pomi is nine.”
I gesture toward the burned house. “What happen
ed here?”
Another exchange. The slobe girl’s face twists with hatred as she speaks.
“Some of our commandos did this last week,” Katella says. “They also killed their mother.”
Giant hands crush my skull in a death grip. A violent trembling comes over me.
“Dammit to hell!” I cry.
Katella takes my arm and speaks in a low voice. “Dye, what’s wrong?”
I inhale deeply and force myself to stop trembling.
Don’t appear weak in front of the others!
But the guilt I feel is overwhelming. Those commando bastards! The only reason they came out here was because of me. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut about the partisan lair?
“I’m all right,” I say, but know that I don’t sound convincing.
It’s not hard to figure out what happened. The commandos expected an easy victory over the partisans, but they got a hard fight instead and lost some of their own men. When they came back this way, they took out their rage on the available targets. They did not include this atrocity in their report.
The girl is talking again, spitting words into the morning air.
“What did she say?” I demand.
Katella hesitates.
“Tell me.”
“She says that when the enemy army gets here, they’ll cut off our genitals and feed them to us.”
I recoil with shock and rage.
“We’ll see about that!”
I take a step toward the girl, hand raised, aching to slap her down. But the blatant cowardice of the act restrains me. I glance back toward the barn. Beltran has braced himself up in the doorway and is watching us. I turn back toward Katella.
“Ask this ... young lady what happened to their father.”
Katella speaks to her. She replies with a torrent of words. Her anger and hostility have increased even more.
“Their father was taken away by the partisans,” Katella says. “They executed him.”
“What for?”
“They charged him with being a collaborator,” Katella says.
I feel a stab of sympathy for the kids, but it does not overcome the suspicion I hold then under.
“Keep an eye on them,” I say. “See if they’ve got anything we can use – particularly a cart or wheelbarrow for transporting Bel.”
“Yes, sir.”
They all move off. The girl favors me with a backward glance of lethal intent.
Who can blame her, considering the similarity of my appearance with that of the commando captain who killed her mother? That s.o.b.!