S. Stirling - The Given Sacrifice

Alyssa followed the brief flight with her eyes and sighed. “No chance for me to break my neck again for a while,” she muttered.

Four of the slender-winged tadpole shapes of sailplanes were staked out with technicians working around them, and flags and a wind sock marked the landing area. He even recognized the type; pre-Change Glaser-Dirk 100s, one of the Air Force favorites, or modern copies so close to the original that a nonexpert like him couldn’t tell the difference. A set of big tents flew a banner that showed a snarling bear’s-head, face-on in black and red and white on a brown background, and they contained a portable forge and workshops with treadle-powered lathes and presses.

The rest of the encampment included a corral for draught animals, mainly big mules, and a thick scattering of bell-tents grouped in threes around a somewhat larger one; the flag there was the moon and antlers of the Mackenzies. A taller pole in the center bore the Crowned Mountain and Sword-what the new “kingdom” of Montival used.

Folk gathered around, about half in pants and the rest in the Clan’s kilt. There must be more than two hundred here all up, but he’d gotten used to crowds since he started his military service. Though so many strange faces still seemed slightly unnatural, to someone who’d grown up on a little family ranch where you could go a month or more at a time without seeing a single outsider and a year without meeting someone from out of the neighborhood.

Alyssa exchanged salutes just like the one he’d learned in school with a hawk-faced woman in her thirties with brown hair in the same shortish bob cut.

He looked around. OK, Bearkiller women in the army wear it that way, like our high-and-tight.

She was dressed in a practical-looking brown uniform that included a basket-hilted single-edged sword. There was a small blue scar like Alyssa’s between her brows and what would have been a Captain’s bars in the US Army on her shoulders.

“Don’t tell me. A write-off, right?” the officer said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you see any sign of the enemy before you totaled it?”

“Nothing, ma’am. I didn’t get that far.”

“How did you manage to pile up your ship?”

“I relied on getting lift somewhere it wasn’t and then I was lower than the terrain all around me. Then I was lower than the terrain under me.”

The officer sighed. “If you had a sane approach to risk management you wouldn’t be a pilot, Larsson.”

“No excuses, Captain Sanders. Nothing salvageable in my estimation, the terrain’s not suitable even for mules, you’d have to backpack the wreck out in pieces. Plus there’s a really big dead bear lying next to it.”

A shrug. “It might be worthwhile going after the instruments, later. You’re a good pilot, Larsson, and they’re harder to produce than gliders. Don’t make a habit of it, but combat-lossing these things occasionally is a cost of doing business. We’ll just show some sisu and suck it up. Written report including map data by fourteen hundred hours tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am. Haakaa päälle! ”

“Hack ’em down! The arm?”

“Hairline fracture of the ulna, according to the Mackenzie fiosaiche .”

“She’s a qualified field medic,” the officer said-a little reluctantly, Cole thought.

Alyssa nodded. “No need for a plaster cast, just time. I don’t think there was much of a concussion, none of the symptoms, except that I was woozy for a while. No recurrence of headaches, or blurred vision or loss of balance. Didn’t even lose any teeth.”

“Right, have our doc take a look when he’s got time but you’re on restricted duty until the arm heals anyway, four to six weeks if nothing goes wrong. I’ll unload some of my paperwork on you.”

Alyssa gave an almost imperceptible wince, and the officer returned a slightly disquieting grin. “I know, you can interrogate your cutie of a POW here. You are now in charge of that, seconded to Intelligence until you’re fit for unrestricted duty again.”

I’m a cutie? Cole thought, torn between feeling flattered and insulted.

“He’s technically the Mackenzies’ prisoner, ma’am.”

“I doubt they’ll be competing for the privilege of talking to him.”

“That we will not,” Caillech said. “No offense, Cole Salander.”

Alyssa chuckled. “He’s not going to talk much anyway. Not at first, at least.”

“SOP, we have to jump through the hoops.” She looked at Cole. “Interested in switching sides? We’ve got a lot of Boiseans on our side now, and Frederick Thurston leads them, your first ruler’s son.”

Cole shook his head, keeping private doubts off his face. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Captain Wellman’s always been straight with me, and as long as he says it’s the right side I’m on it.”

“Fair enough, private. A man’s obligations are his own to judge. You’re between a rock and a hard place and I don’t envy you that position one little bit. You may change your mind when you’re further back and get a chance to talk to more of your own folk who’ve come to different conclusions. Larsson, ask the usual questions, write ’em down, and we’ll send the report on with him when we have time and personnel to spare to move him out. Carry on.”

A swatch of Mackenzies had gathered around, along with some of their enormous dogs. Apart from the haircuts and whether or not they’d painted their faces they looked more uniform than he’d expected, given their wild neobarb reputation. . but then, according to the briefing they wore the kilt and plaid all the time anyway, so this was probably their ordinary clothes apart from the war-gear. Alter the clothes and such and keep their mouths shut and they’d pass for his neighbors easily. Nearly all of them were Changelings of around his age give or take a few years. There were some adolescents doing chores and standing in back, and a few slightly older ones were officers, most of whom wore a neck-torc of thin twisted gold.

Right, that’s the Mackenzie equivalent of a wedding ring, only they wear it around the neck. And there are so many women! he thought.

Then, after he did a deliberate count: No, not as many as all that. Well under half the total. It just looks like more to my eye, I guess. What the lecture called perception bias. Got to watch that if you want to make an accurate report.

Talyn and his comrade made their report to a big scarred man pushing thirty, with freckles on a ruddy pale face, rust-colored hair in a queue and one of the torcs around his bull neck. After drawing them aside out of earshot for a few sharp questions he gave Cole a long look, then turned to Alyssa.

“Is this one’s word good, Lady?”

Alyssa looked at Cole herself. “Is it?” she said.

He scowled and nodded. A man whose word wasn’t good was a toad-no, a worm-and he instinctively resented the question. But to be fair she wasn’t a neighbor who’d grown up knowing him down to the bootlaces in the usual way. Dealing with strangers could be hard, without reputation to guide you. Nobody trusted people they didn’t know the way they did kin and the folks from over the next creek.

“I break any promises to you, ma’am?” he said.

“No.” She turned to the Mackenzie. “And our acquaintance was brief, but intense, Bow-captain Luag. I’d say he was honorable but I can’t take oath on it.”

Luag looked to Cole for a long green-eyed moment. “Give us your oath not to fight nor to try escaping while you’re in this war-camp, and we’ll let you walk free, though watched. Deny it, and we must keep you bound save when you’re on the latrine, the which would be uncomfortable and would do your cause no good at all or whatsoever. Suffer uselessly or not, as you please.”