Epilogue
Dust, as usual, followed them, though the young man said several times he thought it might rain. The old man disagreed and said the clouds over the mountains were deceptive. They drove on through the deserted lands, past blackened fields and the shells of cottages and the ruins of farms and the burned villages and the still smoking towns, until they came to the abandoned city. In the city they drove resoundingly through the wide empty streets, and once took the vehicle crashing and careering up a narrow alley crammed with bare market stalls and rickety poles supporting tattered shade-cloths, demolishing it all in a fine welter of splintering wood and wildly flapping fabric.
They chose the Royal Park as the best place to plant the bomb, because the troops could be comfortably accommodated in the Park's wide spaces, and the high command would likely take to the grand pavilions. The old man thought that they'd want to occupy the Palace, but the young man was convinced that in their hearts the invaders were desert people, and would prefer the spaces of the Park to the clutter of the Citadel.
So they planted the bomb in the Great Pavilion, and armed it, and then argued about whether they'd done the right thing. They argued about where to wait things out, and what to do if the army ignored the city altogether and just went on by, and whether after the prospective Event the other armies would retire in terror, or split up into smaller units to continue the invasion, or know the weapon used had been unique, and so maintain their steady progress, doubtless in an even more ruthless spirit of vengeance than before. They argued about whether the invaders would bombard the city first, or send in scouts, and — if they did shell — where they would target. They had a bet on that.
About the only thing they agreed on was that what they were doing was a waste of the one nuke their side — indeed either side — possessed, because even if they had guessed correctly, and the invaders behaved as they'd anticipated, the most they could hope to do was wipe out one army, and that would still leave three more, any one of which could probably complete the invasion. So the warhead, like the lives, would be wasted.
They radioed their superiors and with a code-word told them what they had done. After a little while they received the blessing of the high command, in the form of another single word. Their masters didn't really believe the weapon would work.
The older man was called Cullis, and he won the argument about where they ought to wait, and so they settled into their high, grand citadel, and found lots of weapons and wine and got drunk and talked and told jokes and swapped outrageous stories of derring-do and conquest, and at one point one of them asked the other what happiness was, and received a fairly flippant reply, but later neither could remember which one had asked and which one had answered.
They slept and they woke and they got drunk again and they told more jokes and lies, and a light shower of rain blew softly over the city at one point, and sometimes the young man would move his hand over his shaved head, through long, thick hair that was not there any more.
Still they waited, and when the first shells started to fall they found they'd picked the wrong place to wait, and so went scrambling out of it, down the steps and into the courtyard and into the half-track and then away, out into the desert and the wasteland beyond, where they camped at dusk and got drunk again and stayed up specially that night, to watch the flash.
Zakalwe's Song
Watching from the room_As the troops go by.__You ought to be able to tell, I think,_Whether they are going or coming back_By just leaving the gaps in the ranks.__You are a fool, I said,_And turned to leave,_Or maybe only mix a drink_For that deft throat to swallow_Like all my finest lies.__I faced into the shadows of things,_You leant against the window,_Gazing at nothing.__When are we going to leave?_We could get stuck here,_Caught_If we try to stay too long. (turning)_Why don't we
—
STATES OF WAR
The path up to the highest cultivation terrace followed an extravagantly zig-zag route, to allow the wheelchairs to cope with the gradient. It took him six and a half minutes of hard work to get to the highest terrace; he was sweating when he got there, but he had beaten his previous record, and so he was pleased. His breath smoked in the cold air as he undid the heavy quilted jacket and wheeled the chair along to one of the raised beds.
He lifted the basket out of his lap and balanced it on the retaining wall, took the cutters from his jacket pocket and looked carefully at the selection of small plants, trying to gauge which cuttings had fared best since their planting. He hadn't chosen the first one when some movement up-slope attracted his attention.
He looked through the high fence, to the dark green forest. The distant peaks were white against the blue sky above. At first he thought it was an animal, then the figure moved out of the trees and walked over the frost- whitened grass towards the gate in the fence.
The woman opened the gate, closed it behind her; she wore a thin-looking coat and trousers. He was mildly surprised to see that she didn't have a rucksack. Perhaps she had walked up through the grounds of the institute earlier, and was now returning. A visiting doctor, maybe. He had been going to wave, if she looked at him as she took the steps down to the institute buildings, but she left the gate and walked straight towards him. She was tall; dark hair and a light brown face under a curious looking fur hat.
'Mr Escoerea,' she said, extending a hand. He put down the cutters, shook her hand.
'Good morning, Ms…?'
She didn't reply, but sat down on the wall, clapped ungloved hands together, looked around the valley, at the mountains and the forest, the river, and the institute buildings down-slope. 'How are you, Mr Escoerea? Are you well?'
He looked down at what was left of his legs, amputated above the knees. 'What is left of me is well, ma'am.' It had become his usual reply. He knew it might sound bitter to some people, but really it was his way of showing he did not want to pretend that there was nothing wrong with him.
She looked at the trousered stumps with a frankness he had only known before from children. 'It was a tank, wasn't it?'
'Yes,' he said, taking up the clippers again. 'Tried to trip it up on the way to Balzeit City; didn't work.' He leant over, took a cutting and placed it in the basket. He made a note of which plant he'd taken it from, and attached it to the twig. 'Excuse me…' He moved the wheelchair along a little, and the woman got out of his way as he took another cutting.
She stepped round in front of him again. 'Story I heard said you were dragging one of your comrades out of its —»
'Yes,' he interrupted. 'Yes, that's the story. Of course I didn't know then the price of charity is developing extremely strong arm muscles.'
'You get your medal yet?' She squatted down on her haunches, putting one of her hands on a wheel of his chair. He looked at the hand, then at her face, but she just grinned.
He opened his quilted jacket, showed the uniform tunic underneath, with all its ribbons. 'Yes, I got my medal.' He ignored her hand, pushed the chair along again.
