William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

“To whom?” Jurak asked. “Just to your people or to mine?”

“There has been no war for twenty years. I think that is a worthy accomplishment.”

“No war. Define war, Vincent Hawthorne.”

“I don’t need to do that for you. We both know what it is.”

“Let us get, as you humans say, ‘down to business.’ ” Vincent nodded.

“I received your listing of complaints-the incident at Tamira’s Bridge, the refusal of passage to the Nippon settlers, the supposed raids, the disappearance of two flyers, the rumors of raids to take prisoners for the moon feast, and all the other allegations.”

“You may call them allegations. I attended the funeral of the thirty-two men killed at Tamira, and their dead bodies were not allegation but fact. As to the incident where a dozen Chin settlers disappeared, by God, if they were sacrificed, I will have one hell of a problem restraining Congress from ordering a punitive expedition. Remember, the Chin are the single largest voting block, and they are screaming bloody murder over this rumor.”

“Fifty-three of my riders died at Tamira,” Jurak replied, choosing to ignore the issue of the Chin, “and the question is who shot first. We both have our own answers to that.”

“It could have sparked a war.”

“And you have yet to define war to me, Hawthorne. Remember, I am not of this world. I came here from another place, as did you. I was educated on a world where there are things you cannot imagine or dream of.”

Vincent stiffened slightly. “Such as weapons you might dream of?”

“Perhaps, yes. And in my education, I studied the writings of Ju ta Vina, who stated, ‘War is the eternal process, and peace is but the preparation for the renewal of conflict.’ ”

“Do you believe that?”

“You do, otherwise you would not be here, in uniform, in command of the tens of thousands of troops that ring us in on what you call the Bantag Range and which many of my people define as nothing more than a prison.”

“What, then, was the alternative?” Vincent asked sharply. “My God, we could have slaughtered you after the Chin rebelled. Remember, it was Hans that offered the compromise and saved your life as well.”

Jurak lowered his head. “I owe him blood debt,” he acknowledged, “and yes, you could have slaughtered us.”

“We are drifting onto dangerous ground here,” Vincent interjected. “Refighting the past is meaningless.”

“Yet history is the foundation of the future.”

Vincent said nothing, taking a sip of kumiss, then setting the cup down.

“The reason for this meeting is that we are dying here. The herds of the great hairy giants are all but gone after twenty years of hunting. In a few more years what food we can gather will be gone forever. More and more of our horse herds are being devoured. Riders who once owned a dozen mounts now rarely have more than two or three. We once ranged around the entire world. Now we are confined to but one small corner of it, and the land is used up.”

“We survive on less land with far more people.”

“You are farmers, and you have the machines that you have denied us the right to make or to own.” As he spoke he nodded to the flyer, which continued to circle overhead. “Then be farmers.”

Garva barked a defiant laugh, and Jurak did not look back. “Go suggest that to my warriors up there,” Jurak replied sharply, pointing at the regiment deployed on the ridge behind them. “See how long you or I would live. The Ancestors would scoff at us, would be ashamed and deny any who did thus the right to join them on the Everlasting Ride through eternity.”

“You are not of this world. Do you honestly believe that?” Jurak stiffened, knowing that his son was standing but half a dozen feet away, hearing everything.

“Of course,” he said hurriedly, “but what I believe does not matter. It is what my people believe that is important. I convinced them to give up the ride, for it was either that or the war continued. I convinced them to forswear the moon feast, to become hunters of other creatures instead.”

Vincent’s gaze went icy.

“I mean no offense, Hawthorne, but remember, that is how you were viewed.”

“I know, and that is why I wonder what it is you and your warriors are now truly thinking.”

“You must acknowledge that the way it now is cannot last. Do you honestly expect my people to quietly sit on this empty land and starve to death? The lung sickness of last winter was but the start. They will grow weaker, ask your doctors of it. It is called malnutrition, and as they grow weaker they will become susceptible to a whole host of diseases.

“You have your medicines, inoculations, a wealth of food. We do not.”

“Then make them.”

Jurak laughed. “How? Where in the name of the Gods do I start? Build a school? Who will teach? What will we teach? I am but one from another world. You Yankees had hundreds of minds to start with. To do what you suggest will take a hundred years, which I don’t have. I am worried about what will happen when winter comes again.”

“So what are you asking for?”

“To leave this place, to resume the ride.”

Vincent shook his head. “You can’t ride west. The Chin will never stand for it. You mix your people in with mine, and there will be a slaughter on both sides, and we both know it. If you go east, Congress will never accept that. There are people there. They are not yet part of the Republic, but soon will be. It is their land, and we are sworn to protect it.”

“So, you are telling me that we are stuck here.” Hawthorne looked down at the ground, absently kicking an anthill with the toe of his boot.

“The Merki are all but dead. They tried to continue on. Wherever they went, there was rebellion and slaughter, hundreds of thousands of humans, and riders have died far to the west across the last twenty years. The Tugars have settled into the great forest and are surviving.”

“Surviving?”

There was a snort of disdain from Garva, and again Jurak let the youth have his way. The humans fully understood that the Tugars were held in contempt for their betrayal of the Merki at the Battle of Hispania. If ever the two Hordes should meet, no matter what the humans threatened, there would be a war of vengeance.

“We are two aging warriors,” Vincent said, his gaze again fixed on Jurak. “We can speak bluntly. I am ordered by Congress and by the president of the Republic to inform you that the boundaries of your lands are permanently fixed by the treaty that you yourself signed. Any attempt to move beyond them will be construed as an act of war, and we both know what that would mean.”

“You will slaughter us,” Jurak replied, his voice cold. “If I had a thousand of those things”-he pointed at the flyer circling overhead-“not those primitive machines but the kind I knew on my world, you would not speak so lightly of war. You do so now because you know that with your land ironclads, your trains, and your flyers, it would not be war, it would be extermination.”

Vincent nodded. “I speak to you now as someone who has come to respect you. I came to this world a stranger. At first I hated your race and everything associated with it. I killed as you did.”

“Yes, I know. You are a legend, Vincent Hawthorne, when it comes to killing.”

Vincent was silent for a moment, features gone pale as if a dark dream had seized him. He lowered his head, the slightest of tremors flickering across his face.

“Yes, I killed on a level that even the oldest of your warriors would admire. I don’t want any more of it. Fighting in the field as we once did, line facing line, there was at least some honor to that butchery. This is different. How long could your warriors stand against our land ironclads, our gatlings, the firebombs dropping from our flyers?”