Starfist: Lazarus Rising (10 page)

"Well, I for one am glad de Tomas made the changes, Major. At least I know who I'm dealing with now." They had arrived at his car. Banks held out his hand, "Major, I really am here to be of assistance." They shook again. "I think I'll like working with you, but please remember, our association is a two-way street." He pointed his forefinger at Devi's chest. "Major, you let me know if I can help you in any way.
Any
way."

All military attachés were spies; Devi knew that. Was Banks offering his help for inside information? If he were to give it, would that constitute treason? Dominic de Tomas, no matter what his image was supposed to be these days, had killed a lot of innocent people in his time. He had seized the government of Kingdom in a coup using the Special Group, as ugly a menagerie of professional killers as anyone could imagine. Life was in no way safe yet on the world called Kingdom.

Major Krishna Devi watched Brigadier General Banks's car disappear down the road. Yes, he thought, yes, I am definitely going to like working with this man.

CHAPTER 7

Emwanna Haramu knew how to survive in the wilderness. The food the soldier had given her helped, but what saved her and Chisi, her baby boy, was her knowledge of her environment, which plants were edible, which had stores of carbohydrates and water a person could survive on without cooking them; she also knew how to construct snares and traps to catch the tiny meat-bearing creatures native to Kingdom that were good to eat. Perhaps most important, she knew how to navigate by the stars and she understood that if she traveled long enough in a certain direction, she would come to a settlement of the Powerful Ones, as her people called the other humans in the world. And of course she knew the proper rites to propitiate the spirits that dwelt in all natural objects.

Emwanna did not thrive on her desert diet, but she survived, as her people had survived for countless generations in the deserts and wild places on Old Earth.

The Pilipili Magna, Emwanna's tribe, had come to Kingdom years before as

"domestic" servants indentured to members of the Malakals, a warlike Muslim sect native to the Sudan back on Old Earth. Historically, the Malakals were slavers, although over the centuries, changing times and stricter enforcement of laws had weaned them from that occupation. But on Kingdom the Pilipili Magna had existed in virtual bondage to the Malakals until the Malakals were finally crushed in one of Kingdom's many sectarian wars by a coalition of mainstream—by Kingdom's standards—groups. Afterward the Pilipili Magna, freed from their bondage, fled to the wild and remote regions of Kingdom and resumed the primitive, nomadic lifestyle of their ancestors. Since they were a very small group and dwelled only in the most inaccessible places, nobody had troubled them—until now.

After many days in the wilderness, Emwanna and Chisi found their way to New Salem.

The first few days "Military Operation" was with the Brattles, he ran a high fever and was delirious much of the time. His two companions, who'd been taken into different households to recuperate, were not much better off. Aside from some brief moments of coherence, he muttered and screamed unfamiliar words and phrases sounding like commands and warnings, but nobody could understand them.

Gradually, however, the fever subsided and his mind cleared.

"There was a name you spoke while you were delirious," Zechariah Brattle said when Military Operation's fever broke. They were sitting at the table, where Military Operation was drinking broth and eating chunks of black bread. "You said, ‘Charlie.

Call me Charlie.’ Is that your name? Charles?"

Military Operation looked puzzled as he mulled over the question. He became frustrated when he couldn't remember and pounded his fist hard enough on the table to slosh broth from the bowl. He shook his hand and swore at the bruising pain.

"Charles, don't take the Lord's name in vain."

"I don't know," Military Operation moaned, not hearing Brattle's admonition. "I'm Charlie... Charlie... Goddamnit, I can't remember!"

"Charles, we are a God-fearing people. Please, your language."

"My language?" Charles mumbled, sucking on the edge of his injured hand.

"The Lord's name."

"Oh." He blushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I'll try to watch that."

"Thank you, Charles." So even though he couldn't remember his full name, from then on he was Charles. Watching his language was something else he couldn't remember.

"Goddamn, Comfort, you sure know how to construct a stew," Charles said as he finished the bowl Comfort Brattle had brought to him.

"It's the best I could do under the circumstances, Charles," Comfort said. "Until Father slaughters another cow, we'll have to live on vegetables." She paused.

"Charles, I really wish you wouldn't take the Lord's name in vain." Comfort's face reddened and she was forced to look down at the floor in her embarrassment.

"Oh. Sorry," Charles replied. During the time he'd been in the Brattles' care, Zechariah, his wife Consort, and their daughter Comfort had steadfastly refused to call Charles "Charlie," thinking that too familiar a form of address for a person they did not even know. And they had all complained to him about his language. "Well,"

Charles continued, spooning up the last fragment of potato in thick beef stock, "if it hadn't been for you Brattles, I guess I'd have been standing before Saint Peter a long time ago, explaining myself rapid-fire to get all those black marks against my name erased from his Big Book."

Comfort couldn't help herself and laughed at the idea of the man standing before Saint Peter. Comfort's laugh always made Charles feel better. He'd needed a lot of that laughter—and that stew!—over the weeks he'd been in the Brattles' care. "See, Comfy, we talk like men who live on the edge because..." A strange expression came over Charles's face. Carefully, he set the empty bowl down and smacked a palm into his forehead several times.

"Have you remembered some more, Charles?"

Charles shook his head, "I
don't know
, Comfort, I just don't know. That—what I just said? It—It just came to me." He looked up at her imploringly. There was moisture in his eyes. "Sometimes things come back to me, just images I can't identify? I think I was a soldier once, or maybe a policeman, but..." He shrugged helplessly.
"I just don't know."

"Well, whatever you were, Charles," Comfort said firmly, "you have a good head on your shoulders and a good heart. The things you have advised Father to do about our security here have made sense to everyone and we're glad you're here. The Lord looks after His people, Charles, and it was He who brought you here."

He recovered enough to get up and move about, and when he wasn't feeling too tired, he had long talks with Zechariah Brattle. Zechariah had told him about their trek from the Sea of Gerizim and how they'd snuck by the devils'—as he called them—camp, where evidently Charles and his two companions had been held prisoner in the cave. Zechariah told him how they feared a return of the devils, and it was then Charles began to put his mind to the problem of security.

"I think you need watches mounted around the clock, Zechariah. Everyone twelve and up should participate. That way you can divide up the duty. How many people would that be?"

Zechariah counted mentally. "Thirty-five people, not including you and your two companions. Hmm. Well, some of our folks are rather on in years, Samuel and Esther Sewall, for instance, are nearly a century old, but they're spry and they'd hate to be left out."

Charles thought for a moment. "How about two twelve-hour shifts each day, dawn to dusk, five people to a shift? One would be the sergeant of the guard, and four watchers, one for each quadrant. It'll be real hard on the older people, and the younger watchers will have to be supervised closely because they'll have a tendency to get bored, but there's no other way you can organize a watch—your numbers are so small and you have your own work to do during the daylight hours. The sergeant of the guard would continually make the rounds, checking on each watcher and helping observe. Pick your sergeants from the more elderly people in your group.

With thirty-five people, you would have seven shifts, so the duty would come around about once every four days. When Colleen, Chet, and I are up to it, we'll be able to fill in. Who knows, maybe you'll even pick up some more people as time goes by."

Charles was deep in thought for a moment. "We also need some kind of warning system, to alert us if anyone approaches. You don't have any kind of radio communication, do you?"

"No, Charles. But we have plenty of scrap metal lying about. Why not rig up something for the watchers to bang on, something that we can hear even out in the fields?"

"Excellent idea. But remember, if you can hear the alarm in the fields, so will any approaching enemy. We need to train everyone that as soon as the alarm for a ground approach is sounded, to drop what they're doing and take their positions or run to the rally point. And when you place the watchers, we've got to position them from the best places, to get good observation, but we've got to be sure they can't be seen themselves. We should build some kind of shelter for them, to hide them and also to protect them from the weather."

"Yes, something like hunters use."

"Exactly, Zechariah." Charles thought for a moment again. "What's your weapons status?"

Zechariah shrugged. "Two shot rifles, my pistol, and two acid-throwing devices we captured from the devils. None of these weapons have much range, Charles; they're for close-in fighting. Comfort and another man have the rifles. They've actually used them to kill. I want them to keep the weapons at all times."

"Okay. It won't be the job of the watchers to engage the enemy anyway, but to warn us of their approach. Tell me about these ‘acid-throwers,’ did you call them?"

Zechariah filled him in on the captured devices. "I don't think the watchers should take them out there either. Let's hold them in reserve. You don't want to stand on guard for twelve hours with one of those things strapped on your back all the time you're out there. But we've got to be sure
everyone
knows how to use all these weapons. If we ever get into a fight, there will be casualties, and everyone's got to know how to pick up a discarded weapon and use it. We need a fortress or a rally point, a place where we can escape to so we can hide or defend ourselves. We can't do much to defend this village. We don't have communications, too little manpower, and limited ammo, I suspect, for the weapons we do have. Right? We don't have any ammunition for training purposes but we can teach everyone how to dry-fire the weapons. If we fight, we've got to consolidate our forces to multiply and concentrate our firepower and coordinate our defenses. If we flee, we've got to have escape routes and more distant rallying points."

Zechariah smiled.

"What's so funny?" Charles asked.

"You, Charles." Zechariah chuckled. "Where did you come up with all these ideas so
suddenly
? They make good sense to me."

Charles shrugged. "I honestly don't know, Zechariah. Just seems common sense to organize that way, don't you think so?"

"The Lord God sent you to us, Charles, and at the next meeting we are going to thank Him for it."

Comfort stood and took up the empty bowl. "I'll take this to the kitchen."

"No! No, Comfy." Charles took her hand. "Sit here a spell? I—I seem to remember things best when my mind is on something else and, well—" He smiled wryly. "—you sure are ‘something else,’ Comfy." Though the Brattles refused to call Charles by the diminutive of his name, he had no such problem; from the first he had called everyone by the familiar version of their given names. When he'd greeted the widow Flood as "Hannie" at their first meeting, for instance, she'd laughed so hard tears had come to her eyes. Hannah Flood had been a frequent visitor to Charles's sickroom since then, and while Comfort sincerely loved the sturdy old widow, secretly she was a bit jealous of her.

Comfort sat back down. "Well, we have found a lot of potatoes in the fields and the men have managed to get some of the cows back into the pastures. And Father has organized a watch, just as you said we should, and we have people on guard around the clock and he's worked out a roster, to make it fair to everyone, and at night we don't let any lights show, and I'm on the watch too, and I am one of the two gunners we have at New Salem and—"

"Hold it, hold on," Charles said, laughing. "Your tongue will get all twisted up!

Tell me about your gun." He put his feet back up on the bed and lay back on the pillows. Comfort told him about the shot rifle and how she'd used it during the engagement with the Skinks—although she called them "devils"—and how her brother had been killed. Where had that word, "Skinks," come from? he wondered, but he didn't pursue the thought.

"Aw, Comfy, I'm really sorry to hear about Samuel," he said, and sat up, taking Comfort's hand in his again. "Comfy, sometimes in combat people, your loved ones get killed and—" He smiled broadly. "Now where the hell did
that
come from? See?

See? I remembered something there! I've been in a war! I know it! Holding hands with you is good therapy for me."

"Comfort! Come outside at once!" Zechariah Brattle paused at the door to Charles's room when he saw the two holding hands. The growing intimacy between his daughter and their guest had not gone unnoticed by the patriarch, but he'd kept his peace about it. "Come outside. A stranger has arrived! Charles, come too, if you will."

The small brown woman dressed in rags and carrying a tiny bundle slung on her back stood in the middle of a small crowd, obviously embarrassed at being the center of attention. She was also very relieved to be there, as clearly evidenced by the big smile on her face.

"She doesn't seem to speak English," someone volunteered as Zechariah, followed closely by Comfort and Charles, came through the crowd.

"Zechariah," he said slowly to the woman, tapping his chest. "What is your name?" He pointed at her.