Роберт Бюттнер - Orphan's Journey

Howard, Ord, and Jude sat in a carriage, its duckbills already turned, and pointed up the hill toward a multi-peaked, bannered tent. The tent stood on a broad lawn alongside a marble apparition of onion-shaped domes and sparkling fountains, the Great Library of Marin.

Bassin and I climbed in, Ord pointed at my lapel, and frowned. I looked down. My Combat Infantryman’s Badge was pinned a finger width too high. I fixed it, and said, “I thought we were meeting in the Library.”

Ord said, “There were complications.”

I stiffened. “Who’s missing?”

Ord raised his palms. “Oh, they’re all under the tent, now, Sir. Her Majesty and four Marshals. With the Colonel here that will make six Marini. Casus brought five sons. Six Headmen representing the Tassini arrived last night.”

Bassin narrowed his eyes. “What happened?”

“The Tassini and the Casuni live in tents. They refused to set foot inside the Library, Sir.”

Bassin’s jaw dropped. “It’s the Third Wonder of the World! They should have been honored.”

“That was Her Majesty’s reaction. Then Casus said it was a stinking rock pile that she rigged to crash around his ears. Things deteriorated from there.”

Ord had resolved Advisee squabbles before. I sighed, then raised my palm. “But we’re good to go, now?”

Ord nodded. “I think so, Sir.”

I ran fingers through my hair, then said to the others as the carriage lurched forward, “Where the hell do we start?” Maybe Eisenhower said something more confident before the Allies invaded Europe, but he was fighting on the same planet he got born on.

Ord pulled a sword and three rifles from a long leather case alongside him. “Sir, we might start with the tools we have available — and those we can make available. Marinus is the nexus of Bren’s arms industry.”

I turned to Bassin. I couldn’t command what I didn’t understand, and I only had a carriage ride left during which to learn. “Why? Fifty words or less.”

Bassin leaned forward. “When the Plains Clans split off and settled the Highlands where the Stones were mined, we traded weapons to the Tassini and Casuni for Stones. For the next three hundred years, we spent a third of our wealth to assure that the Stones flowed. Hardly altruistic. It was good business, and the alternative was the end of the world. The Tassini and Casuni fought one another, and we tolerated it so long as the Stones flowed. Then they thanked us by sacking our border towns, using the weapons we supplied them.”

I raised my eyebrows, and said again, “Why?”

“Because they thought we worshiped the devil.”

“Do you?”

Bassin said, “We hold a pragmatic worldview.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. The Plains Clans killed your people. So you kicked their asses to make them stop.”

Bassin nodded. “Then the Casuni and the Tassini complained that we were arrogant bullies. So they raided even more.”

“Using the weapons you kept supplying.”

“We needed the Stones.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Ord cleared his throat. “Sir, while you were in the field, Jude and Colonel Hibble researched the technologies available in this society. I visited armorers.” Ord lifted the sword, which looked like the saber my Tassini Headman friend was going to pass on to his son. “The cottage industries of Marinus manufacture edged weapons that rival Japanese Koto in quality, as well as personal armor.”

Ord laid the sword down, then Jude hefted it. “Cool!”

“The larger gunsmiths mill steel weapons as well as any gunsmith in America could before the Civil War.” Ord hefted the three rifles, in turn. “The smithies make long-barrel rifles for the Tassini, horse pistols for the Casuni, and short-barreled rifles for their own military.”

“All single-shot?”

Ord nodded. “At least they’ve mastered the one-piece cartridge.”

“Can we make repeaters?”

Ord said, “I expect a working prototype tomorrow.”

I nodded. “Any other rabbits in the hat?”

Howard shook his head. “No infrastructure.” He held up the old Earth lead pencil that he chewed as a cigarette substitute. “We couldn’t even duplicate something this simple, if we wanted to. No graphite mines for pencil lead. Marini housewives are already donating brass pots to melt down, because the forges can’t make enough cartridges. So this ferrule that crimps around the eraser would be impossible. And forget about synthetic rubber for the eraser.”

I sighed, then asked Howard, “Have we got our ten months?”

He waved on the holo gen, and it showed what looked like a bowl full of lumpy minestrone. “Jeeb actually crawled down a ventilator to get these. As you can see, the incubator is up and running. Based on our forensics and experience, I’d guess the Troll will start extruding mature warriors within seven months.”

Three months training and manufacturing lost. My heart sank.

Bassin asked, “How many warriors?”

Howard shrugged. “Fifty thousand.”

Bassin’s eyes widened. “Formidable.”

“Per week.”

Bassin’s jaw dropped. “For how many weeks?”

“Until It runs out of humans to kill.”

We were screwed. But Napoleon wouldn’t admit that if he were sitting in my chair.

I crossed my arms, and looked around at the four of them. “We’ll do the best we can with the equipment and the time we have. I think we can train the Clans to fight together. There’s cultural baggage to deal with. But, when it comes down to it, they’re really a lot like us.”

Howard gave me a sideways look.

If he was right, they were us. But ancient history was inconsequential just now.

Hoooooo-ooo.

The footman clinging to the carriage’s rear platform announced our arrival at the tent with a rhind-horn blast.

The five of us climbed down from the carriage, and two Marini Household Guards saluted, then held open the tent’s flaps.

I checked my gig line of shirt front to belt buckle, then ducked under the flaps, alongside Bassin, and with the others at my shoulder.

I raised my head, looked around, and whispered to Ord, “What the hell?”

FIFTY-THREE

THE THREE CLANS’ DELEGATIONS sat around an equal-sided triangular conference table.

Casus, flanked by five of his sons, all in ceremonial armor, stared straight ahead, his great hands folded in front of him. Two red scratches slashed his face above his beard.

The Queen, in silver, wearing a tiara set with cabochon sapphires the size of walnuts, sat chin-high across from Casus, her palms down on the table. One silver-enameled fingernail was broken, and the Field Marshal next to her sported a fat lip.

The indigo-faced Tassini sat in a row behind the far table edge, as sullen as a half-dozen shelved eggplants. One’s hand was bandaged, and another’s ceremonial shepherd’s crook was roped together, as though he had broken it over somebody’s head.

Ord whispered back, “The Queen hosted a reception last night, but as I said—”

“The Heads of State had a saloon brawl?”

“Their diplomatic skills have atrophied for three hundred years, Sir.”

“But they’re here, now?”

“I explained things, Sir.”

The last thing any trainee in my Basic Platoon had wanted was for Senior Drill Sergeant Ord to explain things to him. But Queens and warlords weren’t trainees. “You threatened them with push-ups?”

Ord shook his head. “I assured them that if they didn’t settle their differences among themselves, you possessed otherworldly means to have them all assassinated, and would take over their nations and conduct this war yourself.”

I rolled my eyes. “They didn’t buy that?”

“They just needed a reason to believe something bigger than themselves was driving events that they knew were in their best interests.”