Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

“What’s there?” The corporal asked.

“I don’t know. But it’s close enough to the front lines that maybe command can send in some choppers or something. Just stay as far away from KC as you can.”

“Nina,” Vince said, “the front lines, I think, are moving east every day.”

“Well it’s something, Vince.”

The corporal pointed out, “Captain, I’ve got a bum arm and there’s nothing but civvies here.”

“Listen, corporal, just about everyone was a civvie before all this. They’ll make do,” Nina considered, nodded to herself, and then called, “Odin, Campion, Mallow!”

The three dogs hurried to her position.

Nina placed a hand on the corporal’s shoulder, looked at the K9s, and instructed, “Protect. Follow.”

“Captain?”

“They’ll listen to you, just keep it simple. They won’t let anything sneak up on you.”

Nina knelt to the ground in front of Odin: the one consistent friend she’s had through all this. She patted him on the head and he licked her nose in affectionate response. It occurred to her that the elkhound probably had a better chance at survival than her.

Then she stood. The three K9s shuffled over to the corporal’s side.

Caesar asked, “What about us, Cap? They give us something fun to do?”

Nina glanced at the proposed target on the map and smiled.

It might be our last mission-but it’s going to be good.

Trevor bit into the final chunk of bread and savored the taste. The bread ranked as the best part of the meal, although the stew certainly stuck to his ribs despite only a few morsels of meat-probably pork-in a bowl of broth and old vegetables.

To his surprise, Jorgie did not complain or wrinkle his nose. Something in the broth (which hinted of red wine) captured the boy’s taste.

Hauser ate, too, but his not-so-well-hidden expressions of disdain indicated he certainly would have preferred more traditional cuisine. Back home old-world fair such as burgers, chicken breast, and cheese made a strong return after the liberation of the Midwest.

After two days in Europe, Trevor came to know that the majority of their diet consisted of seafood for those villages near the ocean or lakes and produce for the rest, such as vegetables and baked goods made from wheat and flour. Meat from cattle in the Murol area remained a rare luxury because there existed little excess crops for the creation of livestock feed and the trade routes to other fiefdoms had been greatly diminished after Voggoth’s European offensive last summer.

Wine, however, could be found. Apparently there were some sacrifices up with which the French would not put.

The trio of visitors sat at a wooden table in a cafe at the village center. Plastic plants decorated tadelakt walls on the inside while natural ivory grew on black metal latticework erected between the dining area and the side walk. The tables remained beneath shade but out beyond the reach of the protective awning a sunny day bloomed. Horses, bicycles, and pedestrians traveled the tiny street outside.

The tables inside were mainly full. Customers wore garb ranging from a variety of military clothes to borderline rags. A handful of waiters tried to keep pace with demand, but food came slow and what came did not usually match the quality of Trevor’s stew and bread. Nonetheless, the cafe maintained an aura of propriety. Conversations remained hushed; proper table manners observed; servers treated customers with politeness and received the same.

Armand sat with them. His bowl and bread held his full attention.

Jorgie drank a metal goblet of milk; another rarity but the woman running the cafe insisted growing boys needed calcium. As JB finished-careful to drain every drop from the cup-he asked Armand a question. In French.

“Pardon me, Mister Armand, but I have a question I would like to ask.”

Armand spoke something that sounded like ‘yes?’ through a chewing mouth.

“I appreciate your looking after us,” Trevor listened to Jorgie’s words; all very polite and chosen to emphasize respect. “But do you not speak for the people of France in Camelot?”

Armand licked his lips and answered Jorgie in the warmest tone Trevor had heard from the man since landing.

“Lady Theresa speaks for what remains of my country. I am a warrior, not a politician.”

Hauser continued eating without interruption. He had grown accustomed to not understanding a damn thing anybody said.

“Have you seen many battles?”

Trevor spotted a glint behind Armand’s glasses; a sparkle.

“Young Jorgie, I have seen a hundred battles and slaughtered a thousand enemies.”

This time JB’s eyes sparkled.

“I would love to hear the stories some time. Will you tell them to me? My father has told me many stories of the war.”

“Maybe little boys should not hear such things.”

Trevor broke in, “Were you a soldier before the invasion?”

“I was fifteen then,” Armand answered. “Snowboarding in the mountains-water skiing-motocross-those were the things I did. Other than the television I do not think I saw a gun until the ducks and the other things came here.”

Jorgie said, “Mr. Armand, but you seem very comfortable with all of it. I mean that as a compliment.”

“I am comfortable with it. The first time I fired a gun I shot one of the big bats right in the head while it was flying.”

Trevor asked, “Do you think it was a lucky shot?”

Armand hesitated. His eyes glanced down and he bit his lower lip as if the answer might be embarrassing.

“No. No it was not luck. As your boy said, I felt very comfortable with it.”

Trevor smiled. A little.

Armand sneered, “What are you laughing at?”

“I’m not laughing. It’s just that, well, I think I know someone just like you back home. And for some reason, that gives me great comfort.”

“Hello! Armand! You’re wanted!”

The voice came from a young man wearing a BMW shirt and leather pants similar to Armand’s. He stood at the open driver’s door of a small sedan idling at the curb.

“That’s it,” Armand pushed away from the table. “You had better come with me now. I am guessing that Camelot has reached a decision on your request.”

Trevor stood as well, then JB. Hauser-not understanding the words-lagged behind as he struggled with the last drops of stew.

“And what do you want them to decide?” Trevor asked.

“I want them to do what I have always wanted them to do. I want to fight.”

For the third straight day Trevor returned to the Chateau de Murol. This time, however, he would learn if the previous two days’ worth of persuasion would pay dividends. The Europeans-the collection of enclaves calling themselves Camelot-would have acted more readily last year, before The Order and The Duass hit them with a pre-emptive strike. Everything rested on whether or not he, and JB to some extent, adequately conveyed the notion that they either fought now or would find themselves voted into oblivion by the Gods. The same fate as the Feranites.

While Hauser stayed behind in the guard shack, Trevor and JB climbed the stone steps with Armand, up and into the courtyard where they nearly collided with the mass of men and women exiting the door to the meeting chamber. Lady Cai was there, too.

Armand hurried to her. The two conversed in French. Trevor caught a few words that sounded like ‘convinced’, ‘instinct,’ and ‘good luck.’ Then Cai pressed her hands against Armand’s chest and gave him a kiss. Armand grasped her hips and pulled her close as if wanting to be enveloped by her essence.