Devices and Desires (62 page)

When it came back — how long had it been away? Not terribly long; he remembered he’d been more or less here, and the voice
was still shouting. He forced himself to concentrate. The voice was Lieutenant Stesimbracus’, and the weight that had crunched
his leg was his own horse. It was lying a few feet away, its back legs twitching, its head perfectly still, and there was
something like a clothesline prop sticking out of it, at the point where the neck meets the shoulder. It occurred to him,
in an abstract, detached sort of a way, that Stesimbracus must have pulled him out from under the horse; very kind of him,
because the weight was ripping his knee tendons off the bone, but he still wasn’t prepared to like the man.

“Are you all right?” Stesimbracus was roaring in his ear, and he really wanted to laugh, because he obviously wasn’t, a dead
horse had just fallen on his leg —

“What’s happening?” he heard himself say; but before Stesimbracus could answer, another of the clothesline prop things dropped
out of nowhere and hit him. The point went in on the left side of his collarbone and came out through the small of his back,
pinning him upright to the ground.

War engines, Eiconodoulus thought; and then he realized what must be happening. He tried to move, then remembered he couldn’t;
and that was the point at which panic hit him, and fear, and all the physical effects that go with them. He could feel his
stomach muscles twist, his bladder loosen, his arms tremble and ache; he could hardly breathe, as though something even heavier
than the dead horse was pressing down on his chest. But he knew those feelings, and he knew he could make them go away for
a while by concentrating.

Unbelievably, Stesimbracus was still alive, because he saw him blink, and then his lips moved. He stared for a moment, as
much from curiosity as horror or compassion; but a running man chose that moment to trip over him, and pain took over for
a while.

When it let him go again, he saw the fallen runner scrabbling to his feet and leaving; he’d never seen a man run so fast,
it was no wonder he’d tripped. He remembered Stesimbracus and looked back. His lips were still moving a little, but his eyes
had the empty look that Eiconodoulus had seen before. He felt very bad about having disliked him so much, but it was too late
to do anything about it now.

Experiments showed that he could still move everything apart from the wrecked knee. If he could get to his feet and find something
to use as a crutch, he’d be able to stand, possibly even get about. That would probably be a wise course of action. He realized
that everything had changed, and until he’d found out exactly how things stood, he couldn’t rely on any of the information
or the plans of action that had applied a minute ago. That hurt almost worse than the crushed knee. He realized he needed
somebody who could tell him what was happening (but that would’ve been Stesimbracus’ job). He was, of course, still the most
significant man in this action; everything would depend on how he dealt with it, but he couldn’t even stand up.

Ludicrous, he thought, someone’s got to come and find me, I’m needed — Another clothes-prop dropped very close, kicking up
dust that blinded him for a moment and reminding him that the bombardment, the source of the damage, was still going on. For
a second or two he experimented with various ways of pushing, squirming or bouncing himself to his feet, but they all failed
painfully. But he was a resourceful man, he knew it perfectly well, and this wasn’t a time to go all to pieces.

He saw the solution to the problem; it was standing, literally, in front of him. If he grabbed hold of Stesimbracus, he could
pull himself up that way, assuming the spike that had transfixed him was firmly enough in the ground. Unfortunately, the poor
fellow was still just faintly alive, and for a moment he was too… Eiconodoulus analyzed the cause. He was too embarrassed
to reach out and grab a handful of a dying man’s trouser leg, while the dying man was watching. That seemed to make some sort
of sense, but he forced himself to do it nevertheless.

It worked, just about; he got himself upright, though in the process he dragged the spike out of the ground and it toppled
slowly, with its grotesque burden, to the ground. Never mind; he fought to find stability, because nothing mattered more than
staying on his feet, his foot, and not crashing back to the ground again. He balanced self-consciously for a second or so.
He’d made it.

He lifted his head and, for the first time since it all started, looked to see what was happening. It didn’t look hopeful.
There was now a forest of the clothes-prop things, planted slanting in the ground like a spindly crop of beans. Rather too
many of them were planted in dead or dying bodies, and there didn’t seem to be many living people about. He rationalized:
that’d be because they were taking cover, as he’d ordered them to do. He thought about trying to move from where he was. Another
spike pitched about three feet away. He looked up; the sky was still full of them, like a distant flock of rooks. This is
hopeless, he thought, there’s nothing I can do. I might as well let myself fall over, because it’d take less effort and I’ve
got no strength left.

But he didn’t do that. Instead, he took a step forward. Mistake; badly thought out. The ground hit him in the face, and pain
took over again. Hopeless. Even if he could stand up and find someone to give orders to, his mind was so blurred and sodden
with pain that he couldn’t think straight. It was as bad as being drunk (it was the loss of clarity that had put him off drinking,
many years ago); that awful sense of knowing what needed to be done, but not being able to order and express the thoughts.
He was no use to anybody anymore. Best thing would be to lie still and quiet. If he insisted on moving, find a cart and crawl
under it, wait for the attack to stop and for someone to come and rescue him.

(But somehow he knew, as a positive certainty, like someone remembering the past, that none of the spikes were actually going
to hit him, not
him;
it was quite likely that he was going to die — thirst, starvation, heat, throat cut by looters — but it wouldn’t be from
a clothes-prop dropping out of the sky. Strange, that this comforting but strictly qualified revelation should have been granted
to him, because he didn’t have any sense of being needed, by destiny, the powers that be, whatever. It was just a fact, a
piece of information.)

One more go at it, he promised himself; I’ll have one more try, and if that fails I’ll have done my best. He contrived to
bounce himself up onto his good knee, and found that if he let the ruined leg drag, like a travois behind a mule, he could
haul himself along after a fashion by his elbows. It was a ludicrous way for a grown man to act; it was the sort of thing
you’d expect of a child playing a game, pretending to be a snail or a caterpillar. He wouldn’t get very far like this, but
he could go a little way, just to show willing. So he crawled five yards (the small stones and gravel flayed the points of
his elbows, even through the padded sleeves of his aketon) and stopped. A little later, he crawled another five yards. He
realized he wasn’t actually achieving anything, but he knew he’d just get restless if he lay still and quiet waiting to die.

Ten distinct stages, five yards at a time, brought him to the shade of a cart. There was somebody else under it. He called
out, “I need help, I can’t walk”; the man under the cart didn’t move. Eiconodoulus called again, but still no answer. Fine,
he thought, he’s dead; so he heaved himself forward, banging his forehead on one of the chassis timbers. Only then did the
man seem to notice him; he leaned forward, grabbed Eiconodoulus’ arm and pulled him under the cart.

“Thanks,” Eiconodoulus said. The man was staring at him as though he’d never seen a human before. “What’s happening?”

The man shook his head. “We’re getting slaughtered,” he said, and laughed.

Shock; takes different people in different ways. “The mounted escort,” Eiconodoulus said. “Have you seen them?”

“All dead,” the man answered. “I saw it. One shower of bolts, nobody left. All gone.”

That was a blow. “Who are you?” he asked. “Engineer?”

The man shook his head again. “Carter,” he replied. “Soon as I saw what was happening, I dived under here. Fucking waste of
time. Those bolts’d go through the woodwork like it’s not there.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” He said it with a wry grin, as though there was something funny about it; then he added, “You know what’s happening,
don’t you? You know who’s shooting at us?”

Eiconodoulus opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated.

“It’s our own bloody side, that’s who,” the man said, his voice rising in anger. “Got to be. Because those are scorpion bolts,
and only the Mezentines have got scorpions. It’s our own fucking side shooting at us.”

Eiconodoulus froze. It was as though the thought was too big to fit in his mind, and had jammed up the opening, making it
impossible for him to think at all. “Can’t be,” he said. “Why? Why would they do that?”

The man shrugged. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “I mean, obviously they think we’re the enemy.”

“But…” With an effort, Eiconodoulus forced his mind clear. It was, in fact, entirely possible. He was days later than scheduled,
and maybe his messages hadn’t reached the main army; they’d assumed he was dead or captured, so they’d sent up more scorpions;
they’d arrived and been installed to guard the road, and somehow their observers hadn’t recognized his column, had assumed
that it must be the enemy. It was possible; in which case…

He thought about it for a moment. Scorpion bolts; and the Mezentines had a ferociously guarded monopoly on field artillery.
It was the only possible explanation.

“In that case,” he said slowly, “we’ve got to tell them, and then they’ll stop.”

“Fine,” the other man snapped. “You go.”

“I can’t,” Eiconodoulus said, quiet and reasonable. “My knee’s all broken up. I can just about crawl a couple of yards, that’s
all.”

The other man was scowling at him; he had a thin, dry face and he spoke with an eastern accent. “Fucked if I’m going out there,”
he said.

“Why not?” Eiconodoulus said. “You just told me it’s not safe under here. The only way we’ll be safe is if someone goes and
finds the battery and tells them to stop shooting. I can’t do it.” He paused, watching the man’s face. “I wouldn’t get fifty
yards.”

He could see the other man doing the mathematics; only two of us, he can’t go… “I’m not going out there,” he said, as though
Eiconodoulus had made an indecent suggestion. “No, you can forget that.”

Best not to say anything; so he shrugged and kept quiet. The man protested a few more times, then slowly crawled out from
under the cart, straightened up — cramp, probably — and began to run, wobbling like a baby calf. Eiconodoulus could only see
his legs from the knee down; he followed him until he was out of sight. Well, he thought; it’s my job to give orders.

He lay on his back, and the pleasure of being still and quiet surged through him like a wave. He closed his eyes to rest them,
knowing it was impossible to go to sleep, here in the middle of so much danger. He tried to rally his thoughts, but it was
too much effort. There wasn’t anything he could do anyway. The responsibility was slipping away from him; he wasn’t in charge
anymore, because he had the perfect excuse.

Light, movement, the sound of voices. His body was awake before he was; he woke up in the act of shrinking away, dragging
himself backward with his elbows. As his eyes opened, he found himself staring at an extraordinary human being. The spectacle
reminded him of something he’d read about or heard, maybe in a briefing; the man’s face and hands were the most remarkable
color: pale, bone-white tinged with pink. At the back of his mind he was sure he knew about this, but the only explanations
that occurred to him were that the man had been rolling in white slip, the thin clay wash potters paint on the outsides of
big jars, or he’d managed to get himself covered in flour.

Then he remembered; where he was, what had happened, his wrecked knee, the fact that the enemy, the Eremians, were a white-skinned
race.

“Got one,” the man was shouting. “Over here.” Eiconodoulus wondered what had become of the cart, but he didn’t dare take his
eyes off the white man. He couldn’t see a weapon, but he was under no illusions about what would happen next. The Eremians
(a casual aside in a briefing, months ago) don’t take prisoners.

That was that, then.

(All his adult life, he’d wondered about this moment, which he’d long since accepted as inevitable; the moment when he faced
the enemy who would kill him. He’d assumed that it would be a spasm of blind, hurting, thrashing pain and terror — he’d seen
wounded animals being dispatched, men being executed, victims of accident and artillery — and it had bothered him, because
he’d die a wriggling, squirming, convulsing thing, and the weapon tearing into his body would hurt unbearably. The thought
had almost been enough to make him quit the profession, but there had always been good, sensible reasons to hang on for another
six months, another year. Now that he faced it, he felt like an explorer or a philosopher finally arriving at the place he’d
searched all his life to find; the great question,
what will it be like,
was finally going to be answered, and he found himself considering the situation objectively, as though he’d have the opportunity
to report back to a commission of inquiry. He’d tell them, I felt sick, very wide awake, completely aware of everything everywhere
apart from my own body, and calm.)

Other white men were standing over him; one on each side, maybe two behind. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a spearhead
— so it’d be a stab rather than a cut, he noted; good, because puncture wounds kill quickly, by organ damage, whereas slashes
tend to kill by shock and loss of blood. A small part of his mind that was still interested in collecting information noted
that the white men spoke good Mezentine but with a strong, rather comical accent.