FSF, January-February 2010 (2 page)

The euphoria lasts several minutes. And then the boats arrive.

I count three boats, no more.

Standing on a chair, the Emperor counts six but admits that only three are lake-worthy, each towing a small skiff in its wake.

The girlish man stands on the lead boat, on the bow, looking grim-faced until he is close and then putting on a false smile that makes me want to laugh out loud. Three boats, is it? And tiny ones at that!

In his absence, I asked for his name.

Captain Rake—the last known survivor of the infamous Ocelot Brigade. He joined us just two weeks ago, after one of our resident generals took him in as a second-tier assistant.

By name, I call to Rake. He flings a heavy rope in my direction, his burly arm powerful enough to bring it within a few strides of shore. But I refuse to retrieve the offering. A colonel, rather less proud than me, wades in to his waist and brings back the prize. Rake orders the motor killed, presumably to save fuel, and then like a small king, he waits while his superiors tow the filthy old fishing boat to the beach.

"We can carry six,” he begins, referring to his craft. “Seven, including the pilot. And I can do that job well enough."

"What about the skiffs?” I ask.

"Eight more bodies in each. Though it'll be a cold, wet ride, particularly if we push our pace."

The Emperor studies each vessel. Then with an expertise that I didn't suspect, he points out, “That little trout-chaser there...she looks faster than these other two, am I right?"

"Yes, Your Majesty,” Rake admits.

"Are any more boats coming?” I ask.

Rake shakes his head. “This is all that was left."

No one speaks, waiting for an opinion from Him.

Then, to give the rest of the group hope, Rake adds, “There's a second bay farther along. Not a place for fishermen, but it used to have vacation homes and quite a few sporting boats."

Tiny craft short of fuel, but I keep my opinions to myself.

"The rest of you could go to that second bay,” the captain suggests. “Take what you need there and follow us later."

He says, “You” and “Us” because he can't imagine being left behind. An obvious plotter with all the cunning of an eight-year-old boy, and I can only hope that the Emperor will pick another pilot for the next portion of our retreat.

"So how many can that trout-chaser carry?” the Emperor inquires.

"Four, and some luggage if you don't mind the crowding,” Rake admits. “Plus the pilot, of course."

"Can you handle that powerful machine?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Easily, yes."

I hear the mistruth in the voice and wait for the Emperor's wrath. Yet the great man startles me, fooled by this sloppy act, accepting every promise that is being thrown His way.

Nodding, He says, “Fine. Wonderful."

He turns toward the rest of us. “Field Marshall Zann stays with me. With my luggage and the crowns and our two strongest radios. And I want General Hawthorne too. And..."

He hesitates.

I die, for an instant.

"And Castor, of course."

Of course, yes. I try not to sigh but can't help myself, and I fight the urge to laugh in relief, succeeding only by the barest of margins.

"The maps will be carried on my skiff,” the Emperor continues, plainly having thought these matters through. Then, to frame that decision in the kindest light, He adds, “We'll be moving fast, and it wouldn't be fair, drowning my loyal team in my wake."

Heads nod weakly in agreement.

With neat efficiency, He decides who rides in the remaining two boats, those not mentioned now forced to find other means to cross open water. Then lifting one of the maps, he says, “We'll rendezvous here,” and points at a circular island waiting twenty leagues offshore. “Called Marvel, by the looks of it. And what a rich, perfect name that is!"

Loading the Emperor's boat is the first concern, and that honor is carried out with rushed efficiency. Those to be left behind work fastest. No doubt they want us gone so their self-centered hunt for suitable vessels can begin. I don't blame them. In their place, I might do the same. But when they begin tossing the sealed boxes into our skiff, I approach and stare until the captain in charge says, “Neater, men. Neater."

Field Marshall Zann has already claimed the seat behind the pilot, its empty partner reserved for Him.

The Emperor will be last onboard. Despite our desperate circumstances, He lingers for a few moments, giving orders to one general and repeating those words to another. What matters is this final opportunity to be saluted and knelt before. What He relishes are these tiny gestures of affection from people who might be dead by nightfall, or wish they were.

I sit beside Rake, noticing as he studies the helm a little too intently.

"You say you can handle this machine?” I ask.

He says, “Absolutely.” But then he glances at me—a liar's gesture to see if his audience believes what it just heard.

At last the Emperor steps into the cold surf, grimacing as the water climbs to His knees. His shock betrays much; weakness rises from His core. Accepting one of General Hawthorne's hands, He fights just to climb over the low railing and then collapses on the deck. His skin is gray, every muscle limp. This deep lack of vigor perplexes Him. But worse, his sickness terrifies us. Zann and Hawthorne even trade glances, using their eyes to pose the same awful question:

"What if He should die?"

He won't die. He cannot. My certainty is sudden, reflexive and primal. Yet I struggle to find good reasons to hold onto these instinctive beliefs. A greater-than-mortal master, the Emperor is wise and powerful in a multitude of ways. During these awful years, He has survived ambushes and miserable luck. Worse abuse than illness has rained down on his body and soul, yet hasn't He always come away grinning? But remembering that grin, I try to recall how long it has been since that weary face lit up the world with its joy.

The past is no guide for the future. Circumstances change, and while history is endless, someday this Emperor will pass. His health is lousy. But just as terrible is my own foolishness, unable to imagine an existence where this man does not stand astride our great nation.

"Drive this damned boat,” Hawthorne yells.

Rake turns and pushes at the throttle, the boat's twin engines shivering as they press against the lake water. We accelerate quickly—faster than our pilot intends, no doubt—and the beached skiff feels the yank of the rope and fights the pressure until it has no choice but to turn and follow.

"Careful with the maps,” Zann snaps at the pilot.

Rake says nothing. But the skiff almost capsized, and he shudders and shrinks down a little, considering the consequences of that nightmare.

For some while, we say nothing. Spent and reflective, we are thrilled with our escape but too ashamed to admit it. I watch the land recede. Men are running, making ready in their mad fashions, but faces vanish quickly and then the uniformed bodies are soon lost as well. Nothing remains of the beach but a narrow gray line where water meets land, and moments later the beach too is swallowed.

The Emperor remains sitting on the tiny deck. Joking, He claims that the heat and vibrations of the engines help the ailing body.

Hawthorne looks at me, perhaps wondering if I'd like to take my turn caring for our leader.

I surprise myself, allowing him that grave honor.

What matters is watching Rake handle the boat's wheel and the long brass throttle, and how he reads the map and both compasses, and his method of aiming at the waves that continue to roll toward us. Boats are simpler than trucks, it seems. But I tell myself that I could master this job well enough, if design or an emergency placed me in his seat.

Something moves behind me. The general suddenly throws a steel pail into the lake, clinging to the rope and bringing it up full. Half is poured back. The other half is given a shot of detergent—the harsh brand normally used to wash fish scales off raw hands. But his intention is to soak rags and wipe down the Emperor's face and arms and hands, sounding like the father of a very important boy, saying, “Now look up, Sire. Higher, please. I want that neck a little less grimy, Sire."

Unnoticed by me, the land has vanished. Behind us is nothing but water and the enslaved skiff. I watch the latter for a little while, trying to anticipate its shifting, almost carefree motions. Then a thought suddenly strikes. Or rather, I remember its presence. More than once, this odd matter has brought me out of the deepest sleep, and for hours I have lain awake, helplessly trying to pick apart the conundrum.

Zann is the perfect audience, and an occasion this ripe will probably never come again.

Leaning over my seat, trying to speak just loud enough for one man to hear, I ask, “When does this change?"

"Change?"

"The war's nature,” I say. “Its plan, its course."

"Change how?” Zann is a brilliant, perceptive man. A good military mind with twice as many soldiers wouldn't have accomplished the miracles that he has. But what seems obvious to me is a mystery to him. Shaking his head, he admits, “I don't know what you mean, son. What about the war is going to change?"

I lean closer. Through the throb of the engines, I shout, “When do we stop retreating?"

He looks baffled.

Hawthorne stares at both of us. Did he hear what he thinks he heard? He wants to know, but the Emperor has just unfastened His black dress jacket, exposing a rib-rich chest more suited to a plucked bird.

"Stop retreating?” Zann repeats.

Rake glances my way, implying that the same sorry problem has also occurred to him.

"You think this is a retreat, Castor? Is that it?"

We never use such an explicit term, no. “Except I can't remember the last battle won,” I say. “We lose divisions, entire armies. The enemy rolls deeper into our country, until the Emperor has to abandon His estate and flee."

"But there is a difference between retreat and a simple redeployment,” Zann warns. “Between losing ground and surrendering the war."

I say, “Yes, sir."

He fumes.

"There are matters that I don't understand,” I admit. “I'm just one person, and certainly not half as smart as a field marshal—"

"You're a small man,” Zann snaps.

Not physically, no. But I accept his criticism without complaint.

Yet I haven't understood him. With a firm tone, he explains, “Everybody is small, Castor. Even the Emperor is just a tiny creature compared to the enormity of our good nation."

"Of course, sir."

"Now I'm going to ask you one question.” He leans forward, gray eyes burning. “Do you know how large our nation is?"

"Of course not, sir."

"And why not?"

Embarrassed, I confess, “I'm only His assistant. And our nation's precise dimensions are the deepest, deepest of secrets."

"Who does know this?"

I glance at the sickly man on the deck.

"Not even Him,” Zann warns.

My surprise is total. And, overhearing the conversation, Rake jerks his head and then the wheel, causing the boat to swerve sideways across the open water.

The field marshal enjoys our mutual astonishment. “When the Emperor's grandfather was still a young man,” he explains, “brave explorers were assembled, then sent forth to map the full extent of our empire. Armies cost less than that expedition, and for the next twenty years those exceptional souls pushed out in every direction, out to the fringes of what was known, and then past. And do you know what they discovered?"

"Not at all,” I mutter.

"No end to the cities and villages, to the lakes and seas and continents beyond. Elaborate, inadequate maps were drawn. Each map was made secret and stored inside the heavy boxes behind us, waiting for the awful moment when we would need such tools. Yet even our best cartographers managed only a partial mapping of one corner of the nation. It is that vast, and we are that tiny."

"But the people,” I begin, trying to comprehend this logic. “Those distant souls in far-off cities and villages?"

"Our people.” Zann gestures over his shoulder. “His people."

My mind refuses to understand.

"Our nation isn't just endless, Castor. It's also ancient beyond measure. And there has always been an emperor at its heart—this man's ancestors, and before them, other family lines that are barely remembered. It is the Emperor and His court that maintain this culture of ours, a society that can endure the worst abuses imaginable."

"But our enemies—"

"What about them?"

I don't quite know what to ask.

So he asks for me. “How can our nation be endless, yet find itself invaded by others? Is that what you want to know?"

I nod, though I'm not sure that is my concern.

"Now that is a very good story, Castor.” He laughs sourly, shaking his gray face. “One thread of His grandfather's expedition did manage to find an edge to the Emperor's realm. There is an invisible but utterly real line, a kind of boundary or border, where our people do not live and the others begin."

"Where?” I blurt.

He gestures over his shoulder with one hand, while the other hand thoughtfully strokes his ragged beard. “The truest particulars of this story have been lost. We don't know who to blame or why. But what we believe happened is that our explorers met a similar team representing their realm, and standing at that border, somebody chose their words poorly, and that's how this war was born."

I have never heard this tale. Absorbing it will take time; I wish the field marshal would have pity and stop talking now.

"Do you understand? When your territory is boundless, retreat is an impossibility."

I don't find his logic convincing, and perhaps my body says as much.

Zann ignores all doubts. “Our most vital and secret maps show that critical border region. We know its length, Lieutenant Castor. We know how the land looks. Think of a flat, barren plain fifty leagues across, bracketed on both sides by mountains that cannot be climbed. That's the only route between their lair and our good nation, and yes, maybe they are winning the battles today, and maybe that will continue for the next thousand years. But we are a different people. You recognize that, surely. We are one soul, and even though they can slaughter millions and billions, some of us will endure inside the conquered lands. Even as slaves and wolf packs, we will persist. No matter how many they murder, more of us will join even newer armies, giving back the miseries in kind. And that's why their fight is hopeless. They throw their soldiers into punishing and securing what cannot be held. Their lines of communication grow precarious. The war front widens every season, demanding more and more from their armies. It is the invaders who are the fools, and even if we do nothing, this flood will eventually run out of blood."