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Chapter Twenty-One

Miles O’Garran leaned back, swallowed his last mouthful of edible lichen. “Jesus,” he muttered, “how do they eat this shit, day in, day out?”

“Guess we’re going to find out,” Craig Girten observed, still chewing his own helping of the fibrous strips.

“Sorry there isn’t a better welcome dinner.” Caine was pretty sure his smile was crooked. “Unfortunately, it’s pretty much the staple everywhere, from what we’ve been told.”

Katie stopped eating to clean her hands for what might have been the tenth time: not because the food was messy—it was anything but—but because Peter’s team had all arrived at the Legate’s fortress caked in mud. Despite being in their suits. “So,” she complained, “is it always glawr to yer bum here?”

“What’d she say?” Duncan whispered quietly.

Not quietly enough, apparently: “Mud up to your arse,” she translated.

“No,” Dora answered with facetious enthusiasm. “Sometimes, it floods. Just for a change. Like yesterday.”

“From the rain?” Peter asked. Half the ration of lichen was still on his clay plate.

“That’s part of it,” Bannor nodded. “But according to Erset, the commander of the guard, the flood was also caused by the lunar cycle: at the shortest interval between high tides, there are overlapping backflows. That pushes the river to its highest level. Add heavy rains for the two preceding days, and half the city was knee-deep in water.”

“If only it was just water,” Newton amended gruffly.

Peter looked around at the walls. “This seems to be a very secure place,” he observed, scratching under his neck with two fingers. The motion was code for is it safe to talk here?

“Very,” Riordan answered, nodding three times, the first one starting from a chin-down position. Which signified: uncertain. They’d first come up with the system after Hsontlosh proved untrustworthy. It was probable they’d continue to have regular use for it in their new home.

“So what have you been doing other than lazing around, eating prime rib?” Miles asked.

“Increasing our knowledge of this world,” Ayana replied.

“Such as?”

She folded her hands. “This is the eighth day of spring. Hence, the weather. There are one hundred and four local days per season. This continent, which the locals call Brazhgarag, is one of the two most populous, and clearly the most important.”

“Well, lucky us!”

“Perhaps,” she answered calmly.

Peter folded his arms and glanced around the group. “So you deem landing here a mixed blessing?”

Duncan swallowed the last of his meal with the aid of a long gulp of water. “Too early to say either way, but that’s part of the problem. The only reason this continent is called the most populous is because it has the most cities. Which is a logical correlation, but there’s no guess about the number and size of towns or tribes living in the wastes.” He shook his head. “I’m an intelligence analyst. Or was. But there’s no real intel here. No countries, no alliances, no standing armies. Hell, there aren’t any routine trade arrangements.”

“Fits what we saw, too,” O’Garran nodded. “Just warlords, with the big ones controlling the food production directly through vassals and . . . uh . . . ”

“Vavasors,” Yaargraukh supplied. “Vassals of vassals. The Hkh’Rkh Patrijuridicate retains a similar structure. The difference is that among my people, the rules governing those relationships are matter of record, as are the histories of the nations that arose from them. Here, nothing is centralized. Beyond rituals of obeisance, there are no laws or even traditions.”

“So what have you been doing besides?” Katie asked, looking around the group that had been in Forkus for five days. “Learning that didn’t take up all your time, certainly.”

It took less than an hour, Caine thought as he answered, “Actually, we spent most of our time learning about Tasvar’s fortress. Well, ‘facility’ is a better word. And we spent almost as many hours helping him and his scribes learn more about this world. Or, more properly, its past.”

“And how did you do that, seeing as how we’ve nae knowing of it?”

“Using this,” Riordan answered, patting the Dornaani translator. “The war, or whatever devastated this planet, left a lot of gear and records for prospectors to salvage, and sometimes, to excavate. The problem with the records is that they were written in several different languages, none of which are spoken today except by scholar-scribes. With some work, the translator was able to identify almost half of the unknown words from context.”

“How?”

Riordan shrugged. “We started by uploading images of the records themselves. Then, we tagged each word as Tasvar’s chief scribe read it aloud.”

Peter was frowning. “I do not see how that would help.”

Newton nodded at his friend. “The Dornaani translator analyzes language at a very deep level and with real-time cross-referencing. It frequently deciphered a word by identifying a previously undetected etymological root it shared with known words. Then it refined the meaning through the context of the sentence or passage in which it appeared.”

O’Garran whistled. “Wow. That does sound like magic.”

Riordan smiled. “When it came to context, we had a pretty sizeable advantage over the locals, though.”

“How so?”

“The records were written by a society that was at roughly the same state of technological sophistication as our own.” Riordan leaned back. “The locals here had no chance deciphering words pertaining to most machines, or science, or processes that have been forgotten. But since both our language and Dornaani is rich in such terms, the translator proposed likely equivalents. And the more that was read out, the more those initial guesses were refined.”

Bannor smiled. “But there was one class of words that eluded everyone until I stepped in.”

Ayana smiled at him. “Your humility is an inspiration, Colonel.”

He smiled back. “As it should be! And don’t call me ‘colonel,’ at least not here. Anyhow, leave it to a career soldier to realize that the words we couldn’t figure out were not actually words. They were acronyms.”

Miles’ laugh was louder than Bannor’s had been. “Typical! But, damn: how did you untangle them?”

Riordan shrugged. “Simple phonetics. Once the translator knew what to look for, it spat out literally hundreds of decoded acronyms. With instant cross-indexing, we could see the kind of content and context in which they appeared. After that, a little inspired guesswork solved all but a few of them. Hell, that’s how we learned that this world’s name is just a bastardized remainder of the planet’s post-war classification.”

“Come again?” Katie asked.

Yaargraukh’s head rose slightly. “One of the few constants across the various local languages is the name for this world: Garya. But scholars have always been aware that it had a much longer name in the oldest records. What the Dornaani translator revealed is that ‘He’t’ is the first syllable of the ancient word for ‘bacteriological,’ and ‘fal’ is a similar fragment of the word for ‘radiological.’”

He continued when he saw that his explanation had not driven off even one of the four frowns of uncertainty. “He’t-fal-garya was an official string of abbreviations which identified the world and why it was to be avoided: bacteriologically and radiologically compromised Garya.”

“So it would be like us calling it, uh, Bact-Rad-Garia?” O’Garran chortled. “Really?”

“Really,” Ayana answered.

“Well then, Bactradgaria it is!” Miles laughed. “Home planet of the trogs!”

Caine managed not to roll his eyes along with those of the Crewe that did. Chief O’Garran’s penchant for concocting sardonic nicknames was already evolving into a group tradition. Unfortunately, just like the jokes of a sharp-tongued court jester, his labels were usually as uncomfortable as they were apt.

But Riordan saw a utility in letting Miles fill that role. His taunt-laced labels were also creating a unique set of codenames that the Crewe could insert into everyday speech if they wanted to frustrate ready understanding by eavesdroppers. Just as important, by giving the chief free rein as namer-in-chief, it made it easier for him to accept Caine’s occasional vetoes. Such as referring to Eku as Frog-pet; that could not be allowed. Assuming they managed to get the factotum back alive.

Craig Girten was still smiling as he asked, “So since you guys got here, did you do anything besides finding more words?”

Gracias a Dios, yes. We hit each other with bones.”

“No, Dora: seriously.”

“I am being serious! We sparred. A lot.” She rubbed an arm. “And some people don’t know their own strength.” She shot an exaggerated glare at Newton.

“I had no prior training with archaic weapons,” he muttered. “I lack the skill to adequately control my blows.”

“Well, see that you learn!” Dora said sternly, then laughed. “You are too serious, always. I am teasing. Maybe you lack skill at that, too?”

Baruch’s expression was glum. “You are not the first to suggest it.”

Which Riordan did not find hard to believe. He stood. “We’ll show you the training hall. We all need to brush up on our skills with ‘archaic’ weapons.”

Girten frowned. “We do have guns, sir.”

“We do, but the more often we show them, the more often we’ll be noticed. And that’s not healthy for us. Whereas training is: let’s go.”

***

Despite grumbling, the new arrivals immediately began taking turns with practice weapons in the mostly empty training hall. It was an easy transition; it had become a tradition on Hsontlosh’s ship, one which fused agility and aerobic training with weapons drills.

However, it offered an additional benefit here; the training room was one of the few places in Tasvar’s citadel where they could speak privately. Multiple passes with Dornaani suit sensors at max resolution detected no apertures or hidey-holes for hidden observers. Probably the Legate’s nod to the futility of hearing quiet conversations in a noisy, echoing chamber.

Peter and Miles, the first pair to train, came off the floor to watch Katie and Dora circle each other with dummy shortswords. “That’s some fine bone-shaping work,” the chief commented, eyeing the practice weapons. “How do they get the weight, though?”

“Sand,” Bannor answered, “inside a central tube. Not perfect, but gives about the right heft. Welcome to the big city.”

As O’Garran snickered, Peter muttered sideways, “So, I am presuming you mean to tell us about the unusual eye color we noted among some of Tasvar’s personal guards?”

“No,” Riordan said quietly. “We can’t risk that here. Tomorrow, when we are on the streets.” He was glad that Peter simply nodded and let the burning issue of a possible Ktoran presence slide away.

Instead, Wu merely crossed his arms and asked, “So, what do you wish to tell us now?”

“The deal we made with Tasvar.”

O’Garran angled his head toward them. “I’m all ears,” he said pleasantly.

Bannor picked up the thread. “You’ve seen the local firearms.”

“Sure have,” Miles muttered, then let a few moments pass as they watched Katie’s parries. “Black powder. Mostly flintlocks.”

“Correct,” Ayana murmured. “Have you seen the more advanced weapons, also?”

Peter nodded approvingly at Katie’s improving speed at attacking and then recovering to a defensive stance. “Didn’t see any until we got here. High-prestige items, apparently. I am surprised they can produce them.”

“They don’t,” Duncan mumbled. “They unearth some every once in a while.”

“Still,” Peter objected, “they are evidently producing ammunition for them. I saw a scythe loading a magazine. Old-style brass.”

“Yep, but filled with black powder.”

In response to Wu’s raised eyebrow, Bannor expanded on Duncan’s overview. “It means their modern weapons are just glorified bolt actions. The black powder doesn’t cycle the action reliably.”

“But at least they have primers?”

Riordan nodded. “Various compounds, but all based on fulminate of mercury.”

“Ouch,” hissed O’Garran.

“Yep,” Rulaine agreed. “Testy and corrosive.”

Peter nodded faintly. “How does this bear upon the arrangement you have made with Tasvar?”

Yaargraukh rumbled from behind and above. “He has been provided with the knowledge necessary for formulating what you call smokeless powder.”

O’Garran almost turned to look over his shoulder in surprise. “And how the hell did we do that?” He stared at Bannor. “Are you playing ‘equip the rebels,’ again, Colonel?” Insurgency support was still one the Special Forces’ primary missions.

“Wish I could take credit for it,” Rulaine answered with a grin. “But you’ll need to ask the commodore about the specifics.”

“The commodore?” The chief’s incredulous tone was a bit too loud. Caine suspected he’d come close to blurting out, “What? Him?

But Peter was smiling and nodding. “This is the result of what you learned during your time in Dornaani Virtua, I presume.”

Riordan shook his head. “A lot of it is what I learned while I was recovering afterward.” He waved aside frustrating memories. “The rebels in virtua needed any military edge they could get. So I helped them develop better explosives. But it took so long.” He shook his head. “I only remembered the basics of nitroglycerine, and could barely recall anything about the evolution of smokeless powder.” He sighed. “My ignorance cost them months of trial and error, and dozens—maybe hundreds—of lives.”

Virtual lives,” Bannor stressed.

Riordan nodded reluctantly. Yeah, they were virtual. But try telling yourself that when you live and fight alongside them every day for months, years. And when they die in your arms.

Peter was scrutinizing Katie’s footwork. “What I do not understand is what you discovered here that makes the knowledge useful. The relevant resources seem quite scarce.”

Riordan tilted his head toward the fragrant dogleg passage that communicated with the fortress’ main entry. “They have camphor.”

After a long, perplexed silence, Wu murmured, “But . . . but camphor is not an explosive.”

“No, it’s not.” Caine chased away enough of the virtual ghosts to manage a smile. “The problem isn’t a lack of ingredients. The two explosives in smokeless powder—nitroglycerine and guncotton—can be generated in sufficient quantities on this planet.”

Newton nodded. “Nitrites are produced in many mammalian intestines. They can also be generated from nitrates by treating them with sulfuric acid, which the locals acquire by leaching low molarity output from seaweeds.”

Riordan nodded. “You could use the Ostwald process on copper nitrate, too. The point is, it wasn’t the explosives that were lacking. It was the stabilizing ingredients.”

“You mean the cotton?” Craig asked dubiously. “Because I don’t think it’s likely to grow well around here, sir.”

Riordan smiled at the paratrooper. “Cotton was just a convenient source of the right kind of cellulose. Here, you can get it from lichens and fungi; they use it instead of straw when making adobe. It’s very inferior, but with enough refinement, it can serve the same role as cotton.”

Miles crossed his arms. “So if it’s easy to make all the stuff that goes bang, why do you need the camphor?”

“Because,” Riordan replied, “the stuff that goes bang does it too fast. It’s good for bombs, which is why it’s also good at blowing firearms apart. That’s where the camphor comes in. It’s both a fixative for nitrite-based explosives and it slows the speed with which they release their energy.”

O’Garran sounded slightly chagrined as he looked around the group. “So how come I never heard of this?”

Riordan shrugged. “Because unless you’re digging into the history of smokeless powder, it would never come up. Camphor was only used for a few years. It wasn’t as efficient as later fixatives and it broke down faster. But here? As long as they’re making preindustrial batches, they’ll use up the ammunition faster than it can become unstable.”

Craig Girten was looking from face to face, perplexed.

“Question?” Bannor asked him.

“Sir, yes, sir. I don’t know much about chemistry, but I do know this: we didn’t bring a laboratory with us. So how the heck did you get all this information about the local plants and such?”

The black tip of Yaargraukh’s tongue poked out. “Actually, Sergeant, we did bring a lab with us. Several, in fact.”

Girten frowned, then blinked. “The food testers.”

Bannor nodded as Katie and Dora walked out of their sparring circle. “Took us a day to collect all the samples. Seaweed was the hardest to get this far from the coast, but there’s always some being shipped upriver. Locals use it in their poultices.”

“And the camphor?” Peter asked. “I was told that is quite expensive.”

Riordan nodded. “Camphor is the sticking point. Not because it’s rare, but because it only grows on a distant island.”

Dora nodded toward Wu as she wiped sweat from her brow. “Remember the little island I saw just after we came out of shift? With the green on it?”

“Oh,” Miles drawled, “you must mean the one you wanted as our drop target? The one that isn’t one twentieth the size of the landing footprint we actually used?”

Dora looked like she might stick her tongue out. “Yes, that one. That’s where the camphor comes from. It’s also the home of the planet’s original population.”

“Or their final refuge,” Ayana amended. “Neither Tasvar nor his subordinates were particularly explicit in their responses. Possibly, because they are not sure themselves. Ironically, a considerable number of Tasvar’s soldiers believe Newton is from that place.”

Baruch shrugged. “Almost no one in this citadel has met anyone from there. All they know about the place—it is called Zrik Whir—is that its inhabitants have very dark complexions. Those few of Tasvar’s retainers who have encountered a Zrik Whiran point out that they are actually much darker than I am.”

As Duncan turned back toward Peter, his enthusiasm bordered on vengeful glee. “So, all those assault rifles the locals are using like bolt actions? Well, we’ve just handed the Legate the ability to turn those weapons back into semiautomatics and automatics. Bad times a’comin’ for the x’qai.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “Assuming that decades, or more, of metal fatigue will stand up to the new ammunition.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t seen the maintenance here.”

“That bad?” Craig asked.

Duncan shook his head. “No: that good. Anything more modern than a bronze-age implement is regularly assessed. In detail. Anything judged close to failure is put aside and scheduled for replacement.” He smiled. “Which gives us yet another trading chit.”

Bannor folded his arms. “In what way?”

Duncan rubbed his hands in actual glee. “So, there are only three energy sources here, right? Dung, alcohol, and oil rendered from fats. The last two are extremely expensive, which is why they’re usually reserved for their vehicles—”

“They have vehicles?” Craig interrupted through a loud gulp of surprise.

“Yep. Only internal combustion, but that just increases the value of this other trading chit. As I was saying, they replace every piece that fails. Every piece. They insist on each new part being a precision fit and made from materials with similar tolerances. And that’s where our opportunity lies.”

Katie nodded. “Their furnaces aren’t hot enough.”

O’Garran raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were a . . . a sociologist, originally.”

“I was a sociology student. More money in information management for engineering, which is why I got tapped for fire control and heavy weapons. Including maintenance reviews. But back to what matters: How do we help them make hotter fires?” She looked expectantly at Bannor and Duncan.

Who looked at Caine with a smile.

Katie couldn’t stop herself from blinking. “Sorry, sir, don’t mean to suggest you’re dim or anything, but . . . ” She stopped lamely, having realized that she’d only dug a deeper hole.

Caine waved it off. “I was indeed ‘dim’ about furnaces, until I started researching it four days ago.

Katie frowned. “You researched it here? On this planet? They have libraries?”

“No,” he answered, “but we do. Well, anyone with a Dornaani vacc suit.”

Miles nodded, beaming. “So that’s why Eku was so tied up with downloading files. He was pulling records. On everything.”

Riordan nodded. “Given Dornaani data compression, we have a very extensive codex of Earth’s printed materials. At least, those that existed before 2100.”

Ayana folded her hands. “We owe a great debt to Eku. We must retrieve him as quickly as possible.”

Miles frowned. “Yeah, and time may be running out. According to the transponder grid, he got to Forkus three days ago.”

Ayana nodded. “But where? His suit indicates that basic comms have failed, and the regional grid is too imprecise. At highest resolution, it only shows that he is in the northern half of the city.”

“Well, that’s frustrating,” Craig muttered.

“Just like everything having to do with information on this damned planet,” Duncan groused. “No one keeps records. The maps are laughable. Well, the ones that exist. And it’s no wonder they don’t have any historical record, since they don’t have a unified dating system.”

“Speaking of records,” Craig asked, “what’s the story on our hosts?”

Caine nodded cautiously. “That’s a very interesting topic. We’ll start with it tomorrow, assuming we have enough time.”

“Tomorrow’s going to be that busy? Why?”

Duncan stretched. “We’re going to see the sights and do some shopping.”

“Shopping?” Katie echoed, incredulous.

“‘To market, to market!’” Miles chanted in a nursery-rhyme singsong. “Or what passes for one, hereabouts.”

Riordan smiled. “We need to be on our best behavior.” To say nothing of being on our toes. “Could be another long day. Time to get some sleep.”


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