Whose idea had it been, that unprecedented oath? The promise was kept for a generation, long enough for the ideal to set. In essence, it lasted into the era of professional armies and technological war.
Until the end of the Twentieth Century, that is, when certain powers decided that soldiers should be made into something more than mere men. The thought of Macklin and his augmented veterans, loosed on the unsuspecting Willametters, made Gordon heartsick. But there wasn’t anything he or anyone else could do to prevent it.
Not a whit can be done about it, he thought wryly. But that won’t keep the damn ghosts from pestering me.
The South Coquille grew more swollen with every mile they slogged, as streamlets joined in from the enclosing hills. A gloomy drizzle began to fall, and thunder rumbled in counterpoint to the roaring torrent to their left. As they rounded a bend in the road, the northern sky brightened with distant flashes of lightning.
Looking up at the glowering clouds, Gordon almost stumbled into Marcie’s back as she came to a sudden halt. He put out his hand to give her a gentle push, as he had been forced to do more and more often the last few miles. But this time her feet were planted.
She turned to face him, and in her eyes there was a bleakness that went beyond anything Gordon had seen in seventeen years of war. Chilled with a dark foreboding, he pushed past her and looked down the road.
Thirty yards or so ahead lay the ruins of an old roadside trading post. A faded sign advertised myrtlewood carvings for sale at fabulous prices. Two rusted automobile hulks lay half settled into the mud in front.
Four horses and a two-wheeled cart were tethered to the slump-sided shack. From under the canted porch roof, General Macldin stood with his arms folded, and smiled at Gordon.
“Run!” Gordon yelled at the women and he dove through the roadside thicket, rolling up behind a moss-covered trunk with Johnny’s rifle in his hands. As he moved, he knew he was being a fool. Macklin still might have some faint wish to keep him alive, but in a firefight he was already dead.
He knew he had leaped on instinct — to get away from the women, to draw attention after himself and give them a chance to get away. Stupid idealist, he cursed. Marcie and Heather simply stood there on the road, too tired or too resigned even to move.
“Now that ain’t so smart,” Macklin said, his voice at its most amiable and dangerous. “Do you think you can manage to shoot me, Mr. Inspector?”
The thought had occurred to Gordon. It depended, of course, on the augment letting him get close enough to try.
And on whether the twenty-year-old ammo still worked after its dunking in the Rogue.
Macklin still had not moved. Gordon raised his head and saw through the leaves that Charles Bezoar stood beside the General. Both of them looked like easy targets out there in the open. But as he slid the rifle’s bolt and began to crawl forward, Gordon realized, sickly, there were four horses.
There came a sudden crashing sound from just overhead. Before he could even react, a crushing weight slammed onto his back, driving his sternum onto the rifle stock.
Gordon’s mouth gaped, but no air would come! He could barely twitch a muscle as he felt himself lifted into the air by his collar. The rifle slipped from nearly senseless fingers.
“Did this guy really waste two of ours last year?” a gravelly voice behind his left ear shouted in cheerful derision. “Seems a bit of a woos to me.”
It felt like an eternity, but at last something reopened inside him and Gordon was able to breathe again. He sucked noisily, caring more about air at the moment than dignity.
“Don’t forget those three soldiers back at Agness,” Macklin called back to his man. “He gets credit for them, too. That makes five Holnist ears on his belt, Shawn. Our Mr. Krantz deserves respect.
“Now bring him in, please. I’m sure he and the ladies would like a chance to get warm.”
Gordon’s feet barely touched the ground as his captor half carried him by his collar through the thicket and across the road. The augment wasn’t even breathing hard when he dumped Gordon unceremoniously on the porch.
Under the leaky canopy, Charles Bezoar stared hard at Marcie; the Holnist Colonel’s eyes burned with shame and promised retribution. But Marcie and Heather watched only Gordon, silently.
Macklin squatted beside Gordon. “I always did admire a man with a knack for the ladies. I’ve got to admit, you do seem to have a way with ‘em, Krantz.” He grinned. Then he nodded to his beefy aide. “Bring him inside, Shawn. The women have work to do, and the Inspector and I have some unfinished business to discuss.”
17
“I know all about your women now, you know.”
Gordon’s view of the moldy, broken-down trading post kept rotating. It was hard to focus on anything in particular, let alone the man talking to him.
He hung by a rope tied around his ankles, his hands dropping to a couple of feet above the muddy wooden floor. General Macklin sat next to the fire, whittling. He looked at Gordon each time his captive’s steady tortional swing brought them face to face. Most of the time, he smiled.
The constriction on his ankles, the pain in his forehead and sternum, were nothing to the heavy weight of blood rushing to his brain. Through the rear door Gordon could hear low whimpering — a pathetic enough sound in itself, but definitely a relief after the screams of the last half hour or so. At last, Macklin had ordered Bezoar to stop and let the women do some work. There was a prisoner in the next room he wanted tended, and he didn’t want Marcie and Heather beaten senseless while they still had their uses.
Macklin also wanted to be able to draw out his session with Gordon in peace and quiet. “A few of those crazy Willametter spies of yours lived long enough to be questioned,” the Holnist commander told him mildly. “The one in the next room here hasn’t been too cooperative yet, but we have reports from our invasion force as well, so the picture’s pretty clear. I have to give you credit, Krantz. It was a pretty imaginative plan. Too bad it didn’t work.”
“I haven’t any idea what in hell you’re talking about, Macklin.” The thickness in Gordon’s tongue made it hard to speak.
“Ah, but I see from your face that you do understand,” his captor said. “There’s no need to maintain secrecy anymore. You needn’t concern yourself any longer for your brave girl soldiers. Because of their sneaky mode of attack, we did suffer some losses. But I’ll wager far fewer than you’d hoped for. By now, of course, all your ‘Willamette Scouts’ are dead, or in chains. I compliment you on a worthy attempt, however.”
Gordon’s heart pounded. “You bastard. Don’t give me the credit. It was their own idea! I don’t even know what they planned to do!”
For only the second time Gordon saw surprise cross Macklin’s face. “Well, well,” the barbarian chieftain said at last. “Imagine that. Feminists, still around in this day and age. My dear Inspector, it seems we come to the rescue of the poor people of the Willamette just in the nick of time!” His smile returned.
The smugness on that face was too much to bear. Gordon reached for anything at all to try to wipe it off. “You’ll never win, Macklin. Even if you burn Corvallis, if you crush every village and smash Cyclops to bits, people will never stop fighting you!”
The smile remained, unperturbed. The General tsked and shook his head. “Do you think us inexperienced? My dear fellow, how did the Normans domesticate the proud, numerous Saxons? What secret did the Romans use to tame the Gauls?
“You are indeed a romantic, sir, to underestimate the power of terror.
“Anyway,” Macklin went on as he sat back and resumed his whittling, “you forget that we will not remain outsiders for long. We’ll recruit among your own people. Countless young men will see the advantage in being lords, rather than serfs. And unlike the nobility of the Middle Ages, we new feudalists believe that all males should have a right to fight for their first earring.