Daniel Polansky - Tomorrow, the Killing

Another one of Roland’s cronies jumped in. ‘What is this man even doing here? This meeting is for captains and higher.’

‘Our captains keep dying in suicidal charges,’ I said. ‘I’ve been in operational command of “A” company for two months.’

‘All our information is that the Dren have denuded their forces in that sector,’ Baldwin continued without pause. I suppose it was the calvaryman’s mentality, attack, attack, attack. It was more effective in conversation than in combat.

‘I am that sector, Major,’ I said. ‘I sleep in its mud and get wet in its run off. I’ve watched it day and night, and if the Dren are going weak-kneed on us, I’ve yet to see any proof.’

‘Perhaps your eye isn’t sufficiently trained to recognize the weaknesses in their positions.’

‘Your own must be exceptionally keen, to make them out a mile and a half behind our lines.’

Baldwin bristled like he’d been spat on. I had gone too far, all but accused him of outright cowardice. The nobility’s attachment to the duel had survived a year of mass murder that dwarfed anything the Thirteen Lands had seen in two millennia of recorded warfare. One would think that the sacrifice of a quarter of the nation’s menfolk would have been enough to satisfy anyone’s taste for bloodshed, but one would have reckoned without the bewildering stupidity of the aristocracy. Barely a week went by without two blue bloods squaring off against each other over some real or imagined insult. It seemed a great deal of trouble to take for little enough reason – if you were so desperate for oblivion, all you needed to do was step ten feet outside of the forward trenches and wait for a Dren bowman to notice you.

Roland put one hand on my would-be killer’s shoulder, and brought him back down into his chair. ‘Peace, Major, peace. The lieutenant is simply doing what we’ve asked of him.’ Like a weeping child at a mother’s touch, Baldwin slipped swiftly from furious to pacified. ‘Please continue with your assessment of the situation, Lieutenant,’ Roland said, turning back to me.

‘I’ve made it, sir. They’ll have the high ground, and they’ll be waiting for us.’

‘We’ll have the numbers!’ Baldwin insisted.

‘But we won’t be able to use them – we’ll get funneled through the defile, and their cannon and missilists will pick us apart. That’s the best-case scenario. Worst case, they’ve got a practitioner or two stashed away, just waiting for a chance to erase us en masse .’

For a brief moment the assemblage put aside their desperate desire for glory and considered the grim possibility I’d put before them. The war had begun with the Throne calling for twenty thousand volunteers. After Beneharnum they’d called for another fifty. Seventy thousand proved to be the total number of suicidally foolish men living in the empire proper, so they moved comfortably into conscription. After six months we had a quarter of a million men beneath the colors. The Dren followed suit, and by the end of the first winter our respective forces had spread across the continent, choking the hills with trenches and blockhouses.

But while you could always cull up another ten thousand warm bodies to press into service, bog farmers and penny tailors, supporting them with fully trained practitioners was another story altogether. The Academy was a partial answer, funneling through anyone with a spark of talent, going in children and coming out weapons. But even so, there were never enough to adequately support the vast forces, and you never knew whether the ranks across from you were stiffened by a man with the ability to call down fire at will. It was a rather terrifying coin toss, as a small team of practitioners on a well-sighted spot were enough to turn the best-planned offensive into suicidal folly.

Roland remained unfazed by the picture I’d painted. He pretty much remained unfazed regardless of what you put in front of him. I wasn’t at all sure this was a virtue. Steady nerves are critical on the battlefield, but the world is a terrible and shocking place, and past a certain point equanimity seems indistinguishable from idiocy. ‘All of our reports say that the Dren have been massing their practitioners further south, preparing for their own offensive operations.’

‘Our reports serve excellently as bathroom tissue. Beyond that, I’ve yet to be convinced of their value.’

One of the other officers, a captain, began to chuckle, but he turned it quickly into a nervous cough. Colonel Montgomery kept smiling, but to tell by his eyes he was starting to find my objections less than amusing. ‘Headquarters has determined that the breakout should begin in sector three.’

Speechifying was never my forte – one on one I can generally figure out what I need to do to get someone moving in my direction, but pool enough of them together and the sheer mass of idiocy becomes immobile. It would have been better to have kept my mouth shut. But I was even worse at that than I was at oratory. ‘Unfortunately, the Dren have some say in that decision as well – and by all evidence, they seem to be of the opinion that sector three would be of better use as an abattoir.’

Roland leaned back against the table and brought his fist up beneath his chin. At any given moment you could have frozen him in time and painted him into a portrait – Hero Making The Hard Decisions , this one would have been called. The pause lasted long enough for us all to appreciate it, and then he pushed himself up and came towards me at a rapid clip. I managed not to flinch.

‘This man,’ Roland said, slapping one hand onto my shoulder and staring at me with an intensity I found at once disturbing and enthralling, ‘is the reason we’re going to win the war.’ He locked eyes with me for a moment, then turned about quickly to address the rest of the crowd. ‘There is no finer man alive than the Rigun soldier, no truer patriot, no more honorable and dedicated warrior. And before us stands his very ideal!’

That I in no way agreed with this sentiment – neither in reference to me particularly nor as a broader commentary on the state of our population – did nothing to lessen the pride I felt at that moment. I stood up straighter, puffed out my chest, felt my heartbeat quicken.

‘And it’s because of men like you that the Empire will be victorious, whatever the numberless hordes the Dren throw against us, whatever the obstacles to overcome.’ He turned his attention back on me, once again the lone holdout against his insanity, if the swell of enthusiastic faces surrounding me were any indication. ‘You said the task before us is impossible – with men like you leading our forces, I have no doubt we can achieve it.’

The meeting broke with a hearty cheer of excitement. Never did a group of people sprint so enthusiastically towards their own demise. I didn’t blame Roland for what he was – enough people tell you you’re special, you can’t help but come to believe it.

Things went pretty much the way I expected they would. The Dren cut us down with their usual brutal competence. Our men died in waves on the flat terrain, till the mounds of corpses themselves became our cover. After three hours of massacre came the order to retreat. I spent that night huddled around a bonfire with the skeletal remnants of my company, hoping the burn wounds running along most of my right arm didn’t fester.

Above a certain position of prominence, the only reward for failure is promotion. And in fairness, the blame could be apportioned up and down the chain. Rather than do so, they just decided to call it a victory. The broadsheets wrote our stalled charge up as a heroic defense, and they promoted Roland from colonel to general.

I learned two things about Montgomery that day, two things that stuck with me throughout the remainder of the war and into the dark days beyond. The first was that his men would follow him off a cliff. The second was that he would lead them there.