Keith Laumer - Zone Yellow

“We’ve been lucky,” Lst told me when we were back in formation and moving along if not briskly, at least steadily toward the city we could see now, rising misty beyond the forest. “All these fellows are confused: they’re used to taking their orders from the royal commandment; then suddenly the Two-Law people swarmed in and said they represented the new law and order. They had to go along, or be killed. Some fellows were beaten to death when they didn’t. Now they’re still afraid of their Two-Law bosses, but have a strong tendency to revert to the old ways. In town, it will be different. The Two-Law cadre are dedicated to their brainless Two-Law party, and can be expected to attack us on sight.”

“With clubs,” I offered. “We’ve got clubs of our own. Tell the troops we’re the winning side―just stick together and follow orders and the good old days will be back before long.” He did so. They seemed satisfied.

There were civilians standing around a cottage ahead. I sent Lst over to tell them we were the army of liberation. Two young fellows wanted to join up. They had their reservist overcoats, and I let them fall in at the tail of the column. There was a lot of talking in ranks, which was fine with me; they were briefing each other and developing an esprit de corps.

More houses, more recruits. There were commercial signs along the road now. Finally we reached a wide area and the village street lay ahead. There were a few people―I realized I had started thinking of the Ylokk as “people”―on the sidewalks. There were a couple of heavy self-propelled carts, loaded with obscure merchandise in bales and boxes. For the first time I got a good look at the Ylokk script, on signs and the sides of carts; it appeared to consist of dotted x’s and odd-shaped loops. I hoped I wouldn’t have to learn to read it.

Major Lst was beside me, on my left, Andy on my right. “The barracks is at the end of the high street,” the captive officer told me. “That’s our best bet; there’ll be room for all, and it will seem natural enough to the Two-Law die-hards that we should go there with recaptured slaves.”

“Could be a trap, Colonel,” Helm contributed.

Minnie darted over to the nearest shop window which had a display of bright-colored objects I couldn’t identify. She was virtually dancing with excitement.

“Candy,” she squeaked, and lapsed into her fluent Swedish, pleading with him to come see the pretty things. He went over, and the two of them went inside. I halted the column.

Andy came back out after half a minute and came over to me. “I need whatever cash these boys are carrying, he told me bluntly. I told the major, and he barked an order, and in a few seconds Andy had an impressive heap of wooden tokens. They seemed to be hand-whittled from a hard, reddish wood, and bore the same x’s and loops in the signs.

“Over a hundred zlots,” Lst said. “They’ve been looting, it seems.”

Andy returned to the little store and went back inside. I went over to see what was going on. The interior of the small room was brightly lit and full of colorful stuff. Minnie was squealing and picking up one thing after another, hugging it and putting it back. Andy told her to pick what she liked best. She settled on a big, fluffy stuffed animal, what kind I couldn’t tell. The shopkeeper, an elderly, gray-muzzled female, was busy pulling out more and more stuff. Andy waved her back and counted out the wooden money. The old dame was chattering but no one was paying much attention. Finally Andy spoke curtly to her and she retired, muttering, while re-counting the take. He told me she’d been asking why a soldier was so interested in little-girl toys. “I told her it was for his little sisters,” he said.

We rejoined the troops, Minnie hugging her blue camel or whatever.

“We’ll consider the camel our unit mascot,” I explained to Smovia and Major Lst, who relayed the information to the rank-and-file, and made a little ceremony of awarding the honor of carrying it to a hardened sergeant (pale blue stripe) who seemed pleased. Lst had them fall in and we proceeded along the street. Nobody paid much attention to us until a short, thick-set rat came out of a door fronting on the street, looked our way, and came strutting over. He had Security written all over him.

“Deal with this fellow,” I told Lst. He forged ahead to intercept the Gestapo-type, who impatiently gestured him aside. Instead of yielding, old Lst did his nifty bow-from-the-waist-and-whip-around, knocking the fellow ten feet. He went over and stood over him as he tried to get to his feet from all fours, and barked something at him. The cop crawled away submissively for a few yards, then reared up and ran to the door he’d come out of.

Lst let him go. He came back looking pretty smug. “That was a fortunate encounter,” he told me. “He’s Lieutenant Drf, on his way to rouse the garrison: reports of groups of escaped slaves roving the area. I told him it was an orientation exercise for the new workers, and we’re part of it, and no one is to interfere on pain of strangulation. That should give us a respite.”

“Prolly lying,” dear old Gus volunteered, bellying up to the Ylokk major. “Prolly told ‘em to lay for us at the barracks.” Lst stepped back and waved everybody back, leaving just him and Gus, faced-off. I could see it coming, but Gus was still a slow learner, of course. The torso-sweep doubled him over, gagging; then he sat down and started to bluster between heaves. I told him to shut up and fall in.

Lst caught my eye. “You understand, Colonel, that the veracity of a royal officer is not to be impugned by such as this.”

I nodded. “He won’t do it again,” I assured him. “Move em out.”

A few of the townspeople stopped to stare at us. A sleek young female with a gathering basket ran out and approached Smovia, offering him something from the basket. Apparently it was food; he sniffed it, made gracious “thank-you-kindly” gestures and nipped at it, then took a good bite. It appeared to be a fruit, rather like a dried apricot. Then, still chewing, he hurried over to me.

“Colonel,” he blurted, “the young lady is sick―I can smell the rotten-orange odor―and after her kindness . . . This is delicious―try it!” He offered me the food. “Please, sir,” he was begging, “allow me to administer my vaccine―it could save her life!”

Minnie had come over to investigate the excitement. “Unca Mobie is good,” she told me appeal-ingly. “Uncanul, say ‘Ja visst, det gar bra. ’ Please, Uncanul.”

“Sure, good idea,” I said, and halted the column. Now I was gnawing on the tough chewy fruit―or whatever it was. I gave the rest to Minnie. She snapped it up and made gleeful sounds like any happy ten-year-old. Smovia went back to the lady with the basket, used sign language and a few words of Ylokk to get her to sit down on a handy brick wall. He turned back her mantle to expose her densely-pelted forearm and rummaged in his little black bag of tricks. She watched spellbound, but made no complaint when he took out the hypospray, put it to her wrist, and blasted a dose of vaccine into her flesh. He called Lst over.

“Tell her to go home at once, and lie down,” he instructed the puzzled officer. “She’s to eat nothing. I’ll try to see her tomorrow.”

Lst was backing away from her, but he passed on Doc’s directions.

“We can’t come close to her,” Lst told Doc. “She has the Killing. I can smell it. She’s dying.”

“Maybe not,” Smovia told him. “See that she does as I said. Follow her, find out where she lives.” He was all packed up and ready to proceed.

We made it to the barracks without any further adventures; it was a long, narrow bunkhouse with a strong ratty smell. Lst went in, preceeded by Sergeant Dvd. There were a few local troops in the building; they left by the back door at a run. The major came back out, looking pleased.