Authors: David Sherman,Dan Cragg
Meanwhile, Bos Kashi attacks in other settlements and villages wrought greater damage, since the Confederation Marines weren’t there. But when Company L and the provisional FlST beat off the attack on New Obbia, these attackers melted into the countryside. Soon after, word came to President Merka from Shabeli the Magnificent, who said the attacks had been made by renegades—renegades who were being dealt with by tribal authorities. It was time for peace, Shabeli said. Time to heal wounds and distribute food to all who needed it.
A few days later the rest of the 34th FIST made planet-fall. Company L headed into the wilderness as soon as Captain Conorado was able to make his report to Commander Van Winkle.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
The village of Tulak Yar lay in the Bekhar River valley 140 kilometers east of New Obbia. The river was now as high as it got, except during floodtime. When Tulak Yar had been founded 300 years before, the settlers built their homes on the bluffs high above the river so they wouldn’t be swept away in the spring floods. The silt from the floodwaters was what made the Bekhar River valley one of the richest farming lands on Elneal.
At first nobody noticed the distant low droning that slowly grew louder and closer. Eventually a disconsolate group of starving villagers gathered along the narrow roadway that wound its way up the steep slope from the floodplain. They glanced up briefly with disinterest as a flight of Raptors drifted high overhead. A frail old man, a gnarled walking stick grasped tightly in one bony fist, pushed his way to the front of the small crowd that gathered by the roadside. Shielding his eyes from the glaring sunlight with one hand, he peered intensely at the approaching vehicles. A huge pillar of dust floated in the silent, stifling air at their passing, stirring dimly remembered legends and folk tales brought to this world by his ancestors, a pious people who had always lived in desert places, where they felt very close to their gods. Something else stirred in the old man too, memories of long ago, when he was young and did great deeds.
“Achmed, your eyes are keen,” the old man said to a skinny adolescent standing by his side, “tell me what you see down there.”
“Many vehicles, Father,” the young man answered. Everyone in the village referred to the old man as Father. As the eldest, best-educated, and most experienced man among the five hundred or so souls who populated Tulak Yar, he was looked upon as both a spiritual and temporal guide.
“I know that, you young fool,” the old man snapped. “But what kind of vehicles, lad, what kind?”
Achmed was silent for a moment as he strained to make out details. “Some are trucks, the kind the city people use to carry goods. There are others of a kind I have never seen.” He paused, peering closer at the approaching vehicles, trying to decipher the fluttering he could see above the lead vehicle. “One is flying their flag, Father,” he said shortly. “Their” flag was the green and gold banner of the Democratic Republic of Elneal, but the people of Tulak Yar owed their loyalty to whatever force was in command of their area at the moment, which just then was the Siad. The flag told the old man that in a few moments that would change again, if only for a while. Until recently, the Siad had left them in relative peace, tolerating the people of Tulak Yar because they provided goods and services needed by the clansmen—mostly crops, meat, and women.
“Stand easy, boy,” the old man said, “I think it is help.” At the mention of help, a murmur ran through the small crowd, and now everyone peered intensely at the approaching vehicles.
When the convoy reached the fork where a roadway split off from the highway along the bottom and climbed to Tulak Yar, several of the vehicles turned and began climbing while the others waited below.
The lead Dragon’s front skirts lifted high over the roadbed where it flattened out at the top of the bluff, the armored vehicle blowing a storm of dirt and pebbles about. The driver saw there was no one in his path and hit the accelerator to speed to the far side of the village. A moment later four ground-effect trucks trundled over the final hump and roared into the village square, where they re-formed from in line to on line. A second Dragon brought up the rear. Instead of proceeding into the village, it spun around to face the way it had come, and dropped its ramp. A squad of Marines ran down the ramp and sprinted to the sides, alternating left and right, to take defensive positions overlooking the bluff and to the sides of the village, where they linked up with the twenty Marines who had done the same at the plateau side.
Another group of Marines and civilians dismounted the vehicle less rapidly and strode to the square. One, the obvious commander, watched the people as they slowly, painfully assembled. His face showed no expression when he saw how pitifully thin and bent they were, how the children stood about dull-eyed and unresponsive, swollen bellies protruding through their ragged clothing, making them look like tiny old men. After a moment he spoke, clear and loudly enough to be heard by everyone who was watching.
“Who is the headman here?’
“English!” the old man croaked, the long-unspoken tongue rusty in his mouth. “I am,” he said, then had to clear his throat and say it again when the unfamiliar words stumbled on his tongue. He approached the Marines, and as he walked, a transformation began: His stride lengthened, his back stiffened, and the years seemed to melt away. Coming to attention before the small knot of Marines, he rendered a smart hand salute and announced in impeccable English, “Corporal Mas Fardeed, 5th Mechanized Infantry Battalion, McKenzie’s Brigade, Second Division, Fifth Composite Corps, reporting, Captain!”
The Marines stared at the old man for a few moments and then Conorado returned his salute. “I’m Captain Conorado, commanding officer Company L, 34th FIST, Confederation Marines. We have brought food and medical supplies for this village. You are the headman?”
Mas Fardeed bowed. “I am indeed the headman of this poor village, Captain.”
“Were you at the relief of Manning on Saint Brendan’s in the First Silvasian War?” Bass, who was in the command group, asked, his voice touched with respect.
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“Jesu!” Top Myer whispered. To have been present at the relief of Manning was an honor for men of the twenty-fifth century comparable to having been at Agin-court or Seward’s Ride around Fresno to warriors of earlier eras. The Marines stared at the old man in disbelief. They had all studied the details of that almost legendary campaign, and although it had been an army show, Brigadier Ran McKenzie was one of their heroes. He had fought his brigade through a thousand kilometers of enemy territory to relieve the garrison at Manning and break the siege. According to many historians, it had been the turning point in the First Silvasian War.
“Headman Mas Fardeed,” Conorado said formally, “may I present Mr. France Savik of the Confederation Blue Crescent Relief Agency. He is here with food and medical aid for you.”
One of the civilians stepped forward and bowed to the old man. “With your leave, headman,” Savik said in a language that sounded to the Marines like someone gargling with gravel, but which was very close to the local dialect, “I will have my assistants construct a kitchen in the center of this square and begin feeding your people in less than half an hour.”
Mas Fardeed returned the bow and answered, “You have my leave.”
“If you have sick among you,” Savik continued, “my medical personnel can have a clinic started even sooner.”
While the kitchen was still being set up and the clinic was seeing its first patients, Conorado and Myer paid their final respects to Mas Fardeed and left. “We have other villages to bring aid to,” Conorado explained to the headman. “But I am leaving a platoon of my men behind to protect you.”
McNeal and Schultz were in a defensive position, lounging behind some rocks outside the northeast comer of Tulak Yar.
“Nothing’s here,” Schultz grumbled, his hands caressing his blaster. “Nobody out there.” He scanned the barren landscape with practiced eyes. “We’re wasting our time. We should be out chasing bandits instead of baby-sitting a bunch of farmers.”
McNeal lay on his back with a forearm shading his closed eyes. He didn’t need to keep watch; he knew Schultz was doing enough watching for both of them. “We don’t ‘baby-sit,’ the bandits’ll come in and steal the food and kill the relief workers. We ain’t wasting our time.” Schultz snorted and turned his head to spit. “Company,” he said.
McNeal spun into a prone position and put his blaster into his shoulder. His eyes darted from spot to spot around the barrens. It looked the same as it had the last time he looked. “Where?” he asked as he flipped down his infras.
Schultz snorted again. “Behind us. Kids.”
McNeal looked back over his shoulder and flipped up his infras. Three small children, so dirty, hollow-eyed, and emaciated he couldn’t tell whether they were boys or girls except for one who wasn’t wearing pants, stood a few meters away looking dully at the two Marines.
“Look at these kids!” he exclaimed. “Sweet Jesu, look at them. They look like they haven’t eaten anything in a month.”
Schultz made a noise. “They’d be dead if they hadn’t eaten in that long.”
McNeal sat up and groped in his pack.
“What are you doing?” Schultz asked.
“Feeding them,” McNeal said. “We don’t feed them, they die, and all our work here don’t mean squat.” He took out a packet of emergency ration bars, tore it open, and offered them to the children. None of them moved. McNeal opened the wrapper on one of the bars and mimed eating it. The boy without pants took a tentative step forward. McNeal gestured again. The eyes of the three children were now riveted on the bar, but they stood as though their feet were rooted to the ground. McNeal sighed and tossed the bar lightly so that it landed at the boy’s feet.
“He takes a bite of that, he’s gonna think you’re trying to poison him,” Schultz said dryly.
The bars were high-energy ration supplements that the Marines carried in the field in case they ran out of their regular rations. An adult could live off one bar a day, not well and perhaps not willingly, but it contained all the vitamins, fat, carbohydrates, and calories an active adult needed to sustain him during a twenty-four-hour period. They did not taste very good, but they could save your life in a pinch.
Flylike buzzers swarmed about the film of dried mucus that caked the boy’s upper lip, but he was too apathetic to brush them away. Slowly, he bent over and picked up the emergency bar. He briefly looked at it, then raised his eyes again to McNeal. McNeal again mimed eating. The boy looked back to the bar, then slowly, uncertainly, he unwrapped it and took a small bite, then another, bigger one. The transformation was almost instantaneous, and afterward McNeal swore he could see the life come back into the boy’s eyes, which suddenly went wide with the excitement of returning physical energy. He turned his head to the other children and chattered something that, despite his high, reedy voice, still sounded to the Marines like gargling with gravel. The other two piped something back, and were answered. The boy looked at McNeal again and lifted one hand as though saying, “My friends are hungry too.” McNeal started to shake his head; he wanted them to come to him and take the bars from his hand, but then realized they probably were as frightened as Schultz had said and tossed the other two bars. But he didn’t throw them as far and the children had to come closer than the other boy to pick them up. They skittered back to a safe distance before eating. Their faces lit up brightly as they ate.
“Come here,” McNeal said.
“Give them time,” Schultz said, and turned his back on the children to resume watching the barrens. He reached into his own pack for emergency bars and got a packet ready for when the children joined them.
McNeal sighed and turned to also watch. “Sad, what was done to them.”
“You’re good with kids,” Schultz said. Despite his show of gruffness, he too was moved by the plight of the children. The two returned to watching the barrens. McNeal turned slowly at a light touch on his shoulder and looked up into the wide eyes of the pantless boy. The other two stood silently behind him.
The boy said something that McNeal guessed meant thanks. “You’re welcome,” he said back. “Always glad to feed a hungry kid.” Looking at the other two, he added, “Did you enjoy yours as well?”
One of them, he guessed a girl because her hair was longer, said something back.
“Glad to hear it.”
Schultz turned to the children. “Still hungry?” He opened the packet of bars he’d set aside and held them out. The children grabbed them quickly and skittered out of reach to eat in safety.
They were back in a few moments, this time all three smiling and touching and talking. McNeal sat up and gently wiped the face of the pantless boy with a bandanna. “You’re a handsome little fart, with some of that crud off your face,” he said.
Just then they heard a thin shriek, and saw a woman running toward them, waving at the children to get away.
Schultz held up a hand to her. “It’s okay, ma’am,” he said calmly. “They aren’t bothering us.”
The children chattered at the woman and ran toward her. McNeal and Schultz couldn’t understand them, but from their gestures and excited motions, it seemed they were telling her how the Marines had fed them and that they were good men, not to be feared. At first the woman didn’t listen to them, instead clutching the children and trying to draw them away. But the children resisted and talked even more excitedly, and then she stopped and listened, questioned them, and finally looked at the Marines and spoke to them.
McNeal reached into his pack for another emergency bar and mimed eating it. “They’re good kids. I fed them.”
The woman’s jaw worked at the miming of eating and she took a stumbling step forward.
“That’s right, for you.’’
The pantless boy ran to McNeal, snatched the bar from his hand, and ran back to thrust it into the woman’s hand. She looked at it uncertainly, and the boy took it back, tore the wrapper off, and held it to her mouth. She took a small bite, her face lighting up as the energy coursed through her system, then sank to the ground, sobbing as she ate the rest of it.