Pathspace: The Space of Paths (43 page)

One nice thing about his cell was the quiet.
It was dark, it was dank, and there were rats, but at least it was
quiet. Until now.

He was nearly asleep when the clock of the
first padlock being opened awakened him. It would have been awkward
if he'd been fast asleep, but by the time he heard the second click
he had extinguished the lamp and shoved it away from the rat hole
and behind a quick shield of invisibility. By the time he heard the
third click he was back on his cot, his eyes closed.

He stirred when the bolt was thrown back
because they expected him too. Someone entered carrying something
far brighter than his pitiful little lamp. The light of the torch
dazzled him. Struggling to a sitting posture, he shielded his eyes
with one hand while he let his eyes adjust. “Who's there?”

“I think it's time we had a little chat,
Ludlow.”

“Now?” He let himself fall back on the cot.
“I thought you said it all when you locked me in here.” He coughed.
“Has something changed your mind?”

“I could have just let them kill you, you
know. But I don't expect you to thank me.”

“Thank you?” He laughed so hard that it
kicked off another spate of coughing. “You should be thanking me. I
got your men out of Denver. And for that, you throw me in a
cell?”

“You should have stayed in Denver. You know
what the Church thinks of wizards.”

“I couldn't stay. I was compromised. They
know I helped your men escape.”

“But why come here? You could've gone
anywhere. Why Texas?”

Ludlow rubbed his eyes. “I didn't know your
fear of the TCC would override your gratitude for liberating your
son and your best commander.”

The Honcho's hand went to the pommel of his
sword. “I'm not afraid of anyone!”

“Then why am I in here, eh? But more
importantly, what do you want?”

“Who says I want anything?”

Ludlow laughed until he coughed again. “Oh
come now, your Excellency. You come to my cell, in the middle of
the night, without any guards? That tell me two things. First, that
you want something from me, and second...that you don't want anyone
else to know you came.”

The torchlight made the Honcho's frown look
even worse than it was. “I have some powerful weapons to bring to
Rado. That should be enough to give me confidence. But they have a
wizard.”

“Ah, now I see it. You want me to help
protect your great weapons from Xander. To balance out their wizard
with one on your side...leaving you with the advantage of superior
firepower.”

“Can you do it? Or would you rather stay
here?”

“He's very good,” Ludlow granted. “But the
element of surprise can work wonders.”

According to the map they were almost to
Noodle. Though he understood his father's reasons, Jeffrey could
not help feeling that it was wrong. It was bad enough for a town to
be called Noodle. Must be some crazy story behind that. But bad as
it was, it was at least a name. And soon there would be no need for
it. Why bother even with a word on the maps when what it names is a
smoking pile of wreckage?

The tanks had to be tested, and the crews
needed experience. Fine. But did they have to destroy a town to do
that? Even as he thought that, he could imagine his father's
rebuttal. Why waste resources building targets for them to practice
on when there were plenty of places like this, abandoned and
empty?

Except Noodle wasn't abandoned.

As they approached, he could see that
someone was trying to work the land. Yes, civilization had fallen.
There was no electricity, no buses, no telephones. But the
buildings were still standing. Apparently, long after the locals
had fled toward the dying cities, someone else had moved in. Why
build a log cabin when there were perfectly good structures? Some
wanderers must have found the place and decided to start a commune.
Whoever they were, they must have avoided the Honcho's scouts,
shutting themselves away when horses cantered through on their way
to somewhere else.

Even from a distance, he could see it was
not a large community, and never had been. It must have begun as a
way station, a place for the trucks of the ancients to stop and
refuel.

It was a little like those islands he had
read of in his father's books. A coral atoll arises somewhere in
the ocean, and eventually accumulates the beginnings of soil. Birds
come to nest, unwittingly bringing inside them seeds that would
begin a forest. And then ships would anchor offshore. If there was
game and fresh water, the island's location would be remembered.
More ships would come. And eventually someone would stay and make a
living offering goods to the ships that stopped there.

Noodle must be like that, he thought. A road
had crossed another, bringing travelers through, until some had
stayed to make a living refueling the trucks. Then feed shops, a
restaurant, maybe an inn for drivers who didn't sleep in their
vehicles. Before you knew it, there was something more than a
crossing of roads. Something to give a name to. Only God knew why
they had decided to call it Noodle. But they had.

And now he was here to destroy it. To put a
period at the end of its sentence. To help it on its way to
becoming nothing again...because the trucks weren't coming back. He
had no doubt that the Honcho would devote all of the fuel his men
refined to war. And armies do not found villages. They pass through
them, or destroy them.

There was a line of people across the road.
Jeffrey saw young and old men and women, their faces tired but not
resigned. How had they known he was coming?

“Stop the tank.”

He was up and out the hatch before he could
talk himself out of it. Someday these would be his people.

The other tank drew alongside of them and
halted. Brutus was climbing out almost as quickly as Jeffrey. “What
do you think you're doing?”

“There's people blocking the road,
Commander. Are you going to just drive over them?”

Glock just looked at him. “Yes, if they
don't get out of our way.”

Jeffrey shook his head. “Let me talk to them
first. Once they understand – “

“I don't give a
shit
what they
understand. I can't let you risk it. Your Daddy wouldn't like
it...even if you survive.” The Colonel glanced at the people, then
leaned toward the hatch and said something to his crew.

With a quiet whine and grinding of steel on
steel, the Tank's gun swiveled to point at the center of the road
ahead.

Once more Jeffrey found himself moving
without planning it. The next order would be to open fire, and
after that they would be seeing what happens to human bodies struck
by high explosive tank rounds. He leaped off the top of his tank
and dashed forward, moving directly in front of Brutus's tank. “If
you shoot them,” he said, “it will have to be through me. The
Honcho won't like that either.”

Brutus glared at him. His eyes shifted to
the men below him inside the hatch. Jeffrey could almost see how
his thoughts were spinning. What now? He couldn't shoot the Runt.
But neither could he risk Jeffrey getting close enough to the
rabble for a stray arrow to get the Commander in just as much
trouble. Though he had operational control of this sortie, Brutus
couldn't just order the Runt to get out of the way. And arguing
with him about it in front of the troop would be bad for morale,
bad for discipline.

After a moment, the Commander shrugged and
lit a cigarette.

The pause was all Jeffrey needed. He began
strolling toward the people. Relief flooded him. He was nearly
shaking. Could it be that easy? If they'd been on horseback, Brutus
would simply have followed him, or sent troops to cover him. But
they had no horses here. Horses couldn't keep up with the untiring
motors that sped the tanks. Sure, horses could put on a burst of
speed when needed. But you couldn't ride them at full gallop mile
after mile, not unless you had fresh horses waiting for you on the
way.

Jeffrey kept left of center, staying on the
same side of the road as Brutus's tank. He didn't hear the whine of
a motor until it was too late. Then came a word of death:
“Fire.”

And then spoke the thunder. Ahead of them, a
group of people to the right of center simply disappeared, replaced
by a cloud of dust and smoke and flying bits that used to be human.
People to the left and right of them were blown off their feet by
the blast, and some of them didn't get up again. An ancient ugly
word came to mind:
shrapnel.

“No! Oh God, no!” Jeffrey spun, ears
ringing, and saw Brutus on top of Jeffrey's tank. As soon as he'd
turned his back, the Commander had done the obvious: hopped up on
the other tank and had them aim the gun to the right of
Jeffrey.

There were horrified shouts and screams from
the crowd as it scattered left and right.

Jeffrey raced back to his tank. “Damn
you!”

Brutus blew out a cloud of smoke and
grinned. “And that, son, is how you clear a road.”

Jeffrey could feel his fingernails digging
into the palms of his hands. “You didn't have to do that. They
might have listened to me.”

Brutus climbed down and went back to his own
tank. “Well they won't now.” He flicked the butt end of his
cigarette away. “Let's get this over with.”

Jeffrey swallowed, aware that the troops in
his tank were listening. He wanted to weep. He wanted to jump up
there and punch the sardonic grin off Brutus's face. But he knew
better. It wouldn't save anyone. Heart pounding, stomach twisting
with the knowledge that the older man had made a fool of him again,
he climbed down the hatch and looked at his men.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

Sgt. Haskew broke the silence. “Sir, we –
“

“Stop.” Jeffrey willed his trembling to
subside. A coldness swept over him. “Don't say another word.” He
knew Brutus was right. The opportunity was gone. None of them would
listen now. Future citizens had just become targets. He turned to
face front. “Forward.”

They rolled forward. Some of the people were
heading off toward a large building on the left, maybe an old
warehouse. Thunder spoke again. Brutus's tank put a round in it
before they could get inside, and what was left after the explosion
collapsed with a crash that sent a ring of smoke curling out from
it in all directions. The people who were lucky were lucky enough
not to get crippled by flying bits of stone and wood ran around the
wreckage and kept going.

Jeffrey tried to swallow, but his mouth was
dry. He couldn't let Glock do all the shooting. “Fire on the first
building on the right.” Only then did he remember the earplugs. He
managed to get them in before the gun fired.

Once arrows rained on them, bouncing off the
tank like so much hail. The other tank spat death, and the arrows
stopped. This wasn't a battle. It was destruction and massacre. He
could taste bile. His troops were getting experience all right.
More than they bargained for. His father would probably be
happy.

He found his canteen and gulped
metallic-tasting water to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth.
Another successful mission. Another glorious victory for the Lone
Star Empire.

He studied the report again in the slanting
rays of the afternoon sun, frowning. So Kristana had her people
pulling double shifts making metal objects: pipes and disks.. So
what? He had to assume that her spies had reported some of his own
preparations. It didn't change anything. Making a few or even a
thousand swizzles and everflames wouldn't do much to slow down his
tanks.

There was a knock on his door. “Enter.”

A corporal came in and saluted. “They're
back, sir.”

Peter returned the salute. “Good. “Have some
sandwiches brought in.” As the man left, his eyes went back to the
reports. Had Xander found a way to use an everflame as a weapon? He
made a mental note to have another talk with Ludlow about what that
might portend, and how they could counter it.

There was another knock on the door. Without
bothering to wait for an answer, It opened and Brutus and Jeffrey
entered. He had to smile inwardly at the contrast. His son was
practically scowling, whereas the Commander's face was composed.
Once again Jeffrey wore his mask of moral outrage, and Brutus
seemed unconcerned and amused by it.

“Have a seat gentlemen. Was your mission
successful?”

Brutus lit a cigarette. “Completely. We
destroyed the buildings, and the crews got plenty of practice at
driving and firing the guns.”

“Successful?” Jeffrey snorted. “Noodle
wasn't abandoned. Or it was repopulated by drifters. Whatever. They
saw us coming, and Glock fired on them!”

“Oh?” He noticed that Brutus didn't seem
worried about it. “Any casualties?”

Brutus blew a smoke ring. “Only the
squatters.”

Jeffrey exploded. “They were people, damn
it! Yes, they were blocking the road, but we were the ones
threatening their homes. They lived within our borders, so we were
firing on our own citizens!”

“Rebels,” Brutus scoffed. “And you wanted to
risk your life and have a chat with them. Would have accomplished
nothing. I saved you the trouble, and saved your softhearted ass.
If their arrows had gotten inside the tanks you'd be rethinking
your attitude.”

And he was probably right about that,
Peter thought. “Gentlemen, take it down a notch, both of you. I
will have respect for my offspring
and
my officers. Now tell
me everything.”

As they filled him in on the events at the
place formerly called Noodle, he had to shake his head mentally.
The differences between them were as obvious as ever. Jeffrey, with
his greater concern for human life, had wanted to negotiate a
resettling of the occupants somewhere else. Glock, with his greater
experience, had stayed focused on the mission objectives, and given
the crews experience not just in destroying structures, but using
the tanks against enemies.