Borders of Infinity

little way off and fell to the dirt to sit, shaken and shaking, pale and cold. His breath rasped unevenly in his throat. It took him a long time to get hold of himself again.

Sheer chance, that this had hit his rawest nerve, his darkest fears, threatened his most dangerous weakness. I could die here, he realized, without ever seeing the enemy's face. But there seemed to be no new bones broken, except possibly in his left foot. He was not too sure about his left foot. The elephant who had trod on it was surely getting more than his fair share of rat bars.

All right, Miles thought at last. That's enough time spent on R&R. On your feet, soldier. It was time to go find Colonel Tremont.

Guy Tremont. The real hero of the siege of Fallow Core. The defiant one, the one who'd held, and held, and held, after General Xian fled, after Baneri was killed.

Xian had sworn to return, but then Xian had run into that meat grinder at Vassily Station. HQ had promised re-supply, but then HQ and its vital shuttleport had been taken by the Cetagandans.

But by this time Tremont and his troops had lost communication. So they held, waiting, and hoping. Eventually resources were reduced to hope and rocks. Rocks were versatile, they could either be boiled for soup or thrown at the enemy. At last Fallow Core was taken. Not surrendered. Taken.

Guy Tremont. Miles wanted very much to meet Guy Tremont.

On his feet and looking around, Miles spotted a distant shambling scarecrow being pelted off from a group with clods of dirt. Suegar paused out of range of their missiles, still pointing to the rag on his wrist and talking. The three or four men he was haranguing turned their backs to him by way of a broad hint.

Miles sighed and started trudging toward him. 'Hey, Suegar!' he called and waved when he got closer.

'Oh, there you are.' Suegar turned and brightened, and joined him. 'I lost you.' Suegar rubbed dirt out of his eyebrows. 'Nobody wants to listen, y'know?'

'Yeah, well, most of them have heard you at least once by now, right?'

'Pro'bly twenty times. I keep thinking I might have missed one, y'see. Maybe the very One, the other One.'

'Well, I'd be glad to listen to you, but I've really got to find Colonel Tremont first. You said you knew somebody . . . ?'

'Oh, right. This way.' Suegar led off again.

'Thanks. Say, is every chow call like that last one?'

'Pretty much.'

'What's to keep some—group—from just taking over that arc of the dome?'

'It's never issued at the same place twice. They move it all around the perimeter. There was a lot of strategy debated at one time, as to whether it was better to be at the center, so's you're never more than half a diameter away, or near the edge, so's to be up front at least part of the time. Some guys had even worked out the mathematics of it, probabilities and all that.'

'Which do you favor?'

'Oh, I don't have a spot, I move around and take my chances.' His right hand touched his rag. 'It's not the most important thing, anyway. Still, it was good to eat—today. Whatever day this is.'

'Today is November 2, '97, Earth Common Era.'

'Oh? Is that all?' Suegar pulled his beard strands out straight and rolled his eyes, attempting to look across his face at them. 'Thought I'd been here longer than that. Why, it hasn't even been three years. Huh.' He added apologetically, 'In here it's always today.'

'Mm,' said Miles. 'So the rat bars are always delivered in a pile like that, eh?'

'Yeah.'

'Damned ingenious.'

'Yeah,' Suegar sighed. Rage, barely breathed, was camouflaged in that sigh, in the twitch of Suegar's hands.So, my madman is not so simple. . . .

'Here we are,' Suegar added. They paused before a group defined by half a dozen sleeping mats in a rough circle. One man looked up and glowered.

'Go away, Suegar. I ain't in the mood for a sermon.'

'That the colonel?' whispered Miles.

'Naw, his name's Oliver. I knew him—a long time ago. He was at Fallow Core, though,' Suegar whispered back. 'He can take you to him.'

Suegar bundled Miles forward. 'This is Miles. He's new. Wants to talk to you.' Suegar himself backed away. Helpfully, Miles realized. Suegar was aware of his unpopularity, it seemed.

Miles studied the next link in his chain. Oliver had managed to retain his grey pajamas, sleeping mat, and cup intact, which reminded Miles again of his own nakedness. On the other hand, Oliver did not seem to be in possession of any ill-gotten duplicates. Oliver might be as burly as the surly brothers, but was not otherwise related. That was good. Not that Miles in his present state need have any more worries about thievery.

Oliver stared at Miles without favor, then seemed to relent. 'What d'you want?' he growled.

Miles opened his hands. 'I'm looking for Colonel Guy Tremont.'

'Ain't no colonels in here, boy.'

'He was a cousin of my mother's. Nobody in the family—nobody in the outside world—has heard anything from or about him since Fallow Core fell. I—I'm not from any of the other units or pieces of units that are in here. Colonel Tremont is the only person I know anything about at all.' Miles clasped his hands together and tried to look waif-like. Real doubt shook him, drew down his brows. 'Is he still alive, even?'

Oliver frowned. 'Relative, eh?' He scratched the side of his nose with a thick finger. 'I suppose you got a right. But it won't do you any good, boy, if that's what you're thinking.'

'I . . .' Miles shook his head. 'At this point, I just want to know.'

'Come on, then.' Oliver levered himself to his feet with a grunt and lumbered off without looking over his shoulder.

Miles limped in his wake. 'Are you taking me to him?'

Oliver made no answer until they'd finished their journey, only a few dozen meters, among and between sleeping mats. One man swore, one spat; most ignored them.

One mat lay at the edge of a group, almost far enough away to look alone. A figure lay curled up on his side with his back to them. Oliver stood silent, big fists on hips, and regarded it.

'Is that the colonel?' Miles whispered urgently.

'No, boy.' Oliver sucked on his lower lip. 'Only his remains.'

Miles, alarmed, knelt down. Oliver was speaking poetically. Miles realized with relief. The man breathed. 'Colonel Tremont? Sir?'

Miles's heart sank again, as he saw that breathing was about all that Tremont did. He lay inert, his eyes open but fixed on nothing. They did not even flick toward Miles and dismiss him with contempt. He was thin, thinner than Suegar even. Miles traced the angle of his jaw, the shape of his ear, from the holovids he'd studied. The remains of a face, like the ruined fortress of Fallow Core. It took nearly an archeologist's insight to recognize the connections between past and present.

He was dressed, his cup sat upright by his head, but the dirt around his mat was churned to acrid, stinking mud. From urine, Miles realized. Tremont's elbows were marked with lesions, the beginning of decubiti, bedsores. A damp patch on the grey fabric of his trousers over his body hips hinted at more advanced and horrible sores beneath.

Yet somebody must be tending him, Miles thought, or he wouldn't be looking even this good.

Oliver knelt beside Miles, bare toes squishing in the mud, and pulled a hunk of rat bar from beneath the elastic waistband of his trousers. He crumbled a bit between his thick fingers and pushed it between Tremont's lips. 'Eat,' he whispered. The lips almost moved; the crumbs dribbled to the mat. Oliver tried again, seemed to become conscious of Miles's eyes upon him, and stuffed the rest of the rat bar back into his pants with an unintelligible