William Dietz - The Seeds of Man

So, having lost a “runner” the week before, he was forced to visit the merc compound located north of his home, wait for the troops to be assembled, and watch while the deserter’s family was put to death. Not a pleasant way to spend the afternoon and one that put him in a foul mood.

It was getting dark and the snow was falling more thickly by the time Voss and his bodyguards returned to the manor. Once Odin had been taken away, Voss entered the house and went up to his quarters. The hot shower felt wonderful and went a long way toward restoring his spirits. After donning a white shirt, black trousers, and a matching jacket, he went down to dinner.

The door to the wood-paneled dining room was open, candles glowed, and the twelve-person table was set for two. Sara Silverton was already there. She had shoulder-length brown hair, large luminous eyes, and a heart-shaped face. The dress she wore was decorated with hundreds of hand-sewn beads and glittered as she stood, a sign of respect she was reluctant to give but Voss insisted on. He smiled. “Good evening, Sara. You look beautiful.”

Sara made a face. “I wish it were otherwise. Then someone else could decorate your dining room.”

“Ah, but I value more than your looks.”

A slave held the chair positioned at the head of the table and Voss sat on it. That was the cue for a second slave to seat Sara—and there was no mistaking the rattle of chains as he did so. The shackles had been added in the wake of her latest escape attempt. “So,” Voss said as the wine was poured. “How was your day?”

“Like every other day. Boring.”

Voss shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be that way. You could swear your allegiance to me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you would believe that?”

Sara never told Voss what he wanted to hear, and that was part of the attraction. He took a sip of wine. “No, of course not.”

“So we’re back to where we started.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Voss broke the ensuing silence. “A man came to visit me today.”

“So?”

“So he says that Hashi is building more wind turbines—and that’s why she raised her prices.”

Sara’s eyes flashed. “He’s wrong.”

“In what way?”

“She wants everything you have.”

Voss eyed his prisoner from the other end of the table. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I’m all for it. Maybe she will free me.”

Voss considered that. “I don’t think so. Hashi would use you as I do.”

Sara shrugged. “Perhaps… The outcome is unclear.”

“And if I invade her territory? What then?”

Sara’s eyes took on the faraway look he’d seen many times before. Sara was a psychic, or claimed to be, although he wasn’t sure what to believe. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t. But whatever the source, the advice she gave him was right more often than it was wrong. And that gave him an edge—a small edge, but an edge nevertheless. “If you invade you’ll be sorry,” Sara said. “I see bodies, hundreds of them, all killed by Hashi.”

“Is my corpse among them?”

“No,” Sara said and smiled.

Was she telling the truth? Or lying in hopes that he would be killed? That was part of the game they played. “I should shoot you.”

“I would welcome that.”

“Then I won’t.”

“I know.”

Voss laughed, and as he looked the length of the table at Sara, he saw what might have been the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. The salad arrived and they ate in silence. It was better than dining alone.

The mercenaries departed at dawn. There were a thousand of them, all riding horses, and all dressed cowboy-style. There were ten companies of one hundred men, each having a boss and a flag to rally to. They rode in a column of twos with dusters over multiple layers of clothing and hats pulled low. The snow had stopped during the night, but it was cold, and the entire formation was enveloped by a fog of lung-warmed air. The wagons came next. There were ten of them, all heavily loaded with tents, tools, food, ammo, medical supplies, and slaves. It took a lot of resources to start a war. They rattled, creaked, and squealed.

Voss and his bodyguards rode at the front. That was something Voss insisted on because he knew the mercs were more likely to put their hearts into a fight if they could see that he was taking the same chances they did.

But appearances were deceiving. In spite of Voss’s determination to look brave, he was terrified, not because of the possibility that he would be killed—he couldn’t conceive of that—but because he might fail. Just like Sara said he would. But, Voss reminded himself, remember what Charlie said. He thinks Hashi is busy building wind turbines.

The thought made him feel better, as did the news a scout radioed back half an hour later. The way was clear. There were no tracks in the snow, no unusual radio traffic, and no suspicious riders in the distance. Nor should there be that close to Afton. But Kemmerer, which lay a hundred miles to the south, was at the northern boundary of what Hashi considered to be her territory. So Voss expected to make contact by the time he and his mercenaries arrived there.

Except for a brief appearance shortly after noon, the sun was hidden behind the clouds for the rest of the day. And by the time the column pulled into a hamlet called Border Junction, Voss was exhausted. But rather than let that show, he forced himself to make the rounds and even went so far as to help erect a tent, disperse dollops of whiskey from the flasks he kept in his pockets, and chat with the mercs he knew. Small things, really… but moments that would be magnified in the telling and would help to keep spirits up.

Then, dead tired, Voss retreated to the tent that slaves had set up for him. Unlike all the rest, it was equipped with a small wood-burning stove, carpets, and camp furniture. Voss ate a bowl of piping-hot stew as Hawkins delivered a report. He struggled to say all the right things in response, then went to bed a few minutes later. The interior of his sleeping bag was already warm thanks to a couple of hot water bottles, and it wasn’t long before sleep carried him away.

It took two hours to break camp in the morning and it was all Voss could do to remain aloof. He was, as always, filled with a seething impatience. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the column set off.

Now, conscious of the fact that Hashi’s territory lay only fifty miles to the south, Voss sent half a company of horsemen ahead to scout the way. Voss didn’t expect to make contact with the enemy so soon but knew such a thing was possible.

But beyond routine encounters with a few startled travelers, the scouts found nothing other than vast tracts of untouched snow, the bite of the relentless wind, and an empty horizon. Surely they would make contact soon. The suspense was nerve-wracking, but comforting too, because with each passing mile Voss became increasingly convinced that Charlie was right. Hashi’s attention was focused elsewhere.

That thought helped Voss endure the next eight hours as the column passed through Cokeville and turned east at the hamlet of Sage. It was flat country interrupted by low-lying ridges, perfect for cavalry. But it was a cold, heartless place, and Voss felt lost in it.

Finally, as the sky began to darken, they arrived in what was once the town of Kemmerer. It had been home to a couple thousand people sixty years earlier. But that was back before the nuclear exchange, sudden climate change, and the second civil war. There had been significant quantities of fuel back then, and a tank battle had been fought in Kemmerer. The hulks of burned-out machines stood as mute testimonials to a period when various states and combinations of states battled one another and ultimately reduced the United States of America to rubble. And now, more than fifty years later, people were fighting over the rubble.