Under One Banner, page 14
part #4 of Commonweal Series
“All this stuff,” Tiggy waves downrange, at the broken air and the rising splattered plasma in front of the obscured hill, “only works on armies. It’s worth doing: if we can swap would-be conquerors a few years of work from a couple thousand people in the Armoury and a season’s work from four-five thousand in a refinery for twenty years times however many in their army, eventually they have to stop trying. But anybody smart won’t use armies.”
“You’re sounding like the boss.” Mel’s fond more than anything, but it’s not a simple set of feelings.
Eugenia tries not to flinch at boss, however fondly Mel said it.
“Can’t say it’s wrong.” Tiggy still sounds cheerful and looks that little bit abashed.
“It’s not wrong,” Hank says. “Anyone smart will scatter minor demons and have them destroy food stores and shelter in the early winter.”
Eugenia thinks.
The fourth tube produces the expected crash, and the same hot smell, only more of it this time.
“Artillery first because of the hell-things.” Eugenia does not like to think about the hell-things.
Everybody nods. “Only way to maybe stop them coming over the Folded Hills,” Hank says. “Soonest we could make them.”
“Soonest consistent with multiple sources,” Tiggy says.
Hank nods. “Though there would never have been time when everybody displaced. We’re preparing for what might happen if the hell-things are directed, and whoever’s doing the directing gives up on the First Commonweal and decides to come try us.”
With a sixth the population and perhaps a quarter the territory. It ought to make sense to a conqueror.
“What about the demons?” Eugenia carefully doesn’t twist their fingers. Order’s phrase for demons was highly problematic.
“The sticks worked.” Tiggy’s entirely cheerful. “The First did for a hundred-plus. That was a two-brigade job and a much worse day with no sticks and the old standards.”
“Before you point out there aren’t that many battalions,” Aella says, “Tiggy’s got a way to get the anti-demon version of the sticks to work without a battle-standard.”
“I think I’ve got,” Tiggy says. “If we do have, I want to make enough for everybody. Make sure there’s a bundle or three everywhere anyone might be.”
The fifth tube’s crash comes with much more of the hot smell, and expressions that go with repressed swearing. Hank takes half a step and pulls their foot back, looks down and left. “Not my trouble.”
Eugenia can’t easily face Xenia; there are three large people between them, a protective construct in the way of stepping forward, and stepping back sends the wrong social signal. There’s no help for it.
“Xenia, what did you mean by the Commonweal threatening sorcerers?”
“Sorcerers have constrained agency,” Xenia says. “The law forbids sorcerers collective action. The law forbids sorcerers gean membership.”
Eugenia can’t manage to say anything. Eugenia can’t even manage to have a facial expression. Sorcerer in that sense is independent, and an independent of modest talent can be someone specializing in the means of slaughter, like all eight of the pleasant kind people on the Shot Team. It would take them some forethought to destroy a town, to kill ten or twenty thousands, but it would not challenge them to do it.
Legend says Halt can kill with a narrow thought, the pure will without any need of a spell. Anyone who can say perish in flames with effect can kill without having to think any much wider than Halt.
“It’s not a direct threat,” Lily says, voice light and clearly happy. “But the enforced distinct legal category’s worrying.”
“People have to not be afraid of us,” Eugenia says in a small voice almost a squeak, recognizing that it’s not properly us in the present, not for sorcerers.
The sixth tube produces its second crash.
Always us for the Commonweal, is a thought Eugenia has, and does not recognize the voice in their head that says it.
“That’s not believing in the collective.” Hank sounds amused, but it’s not amused at Eugenia. “If it can shrug a heave,” Hank says, “it’s time to pile on.”
Eugenia looks at the shrouded horizon swirling where the shot has gone. Waits for the newly familiar rumble like distant thunder from the impact. A thunder distinct from the shot’s fracturing passage through the air. Wonders how many there are who could withstand one heave, because these aren’t, these are just flings.
“The Independent Mulch,” Xenia says, “asserts all independents are enslaved by the Shape of Peace. That’s untrue, but it’s a place present custom could go.”
“Custom doesn’t change easily,” comes out with no intention of Eugenia’s, either for the words or the doubt. It is a saying of Order’s.
“Depends how long you have,” Hanks says. “Custom has shifted. If you stop thinking about it like a Commonweal person, the Shape of Peace is a mind control spell used to set limits on conduct. It feeds information from individuals, rather than instructions to them, and we use it to set limits, rather than decree results. It works and people in the Commonweal think it’s a fine thing. Someone from a power hierarchy won’t trust it to always run backwards and someone with power from a power hierarchy would think they’re being placed in chains, but it still moves as the population changes.”
“‘I want what I want when I want it’. Order calls that the basic mistake.” Everyone around Eugenia is startled because they sound certain, and no-one in the Creeks Armoury has heard Eugenia’s tone go certain before.
“We get too much focused on the present Peace,” Mel says. “It’s not immutable. It’s a consensus, and inherently mutable even considering the Shape provides bounds because the old depart and the young become adult and join.”
“Best we can do at the time,” Hank says, meaning the present Peace.
“Copies into the future. You’re saying this isn’t any different from squash plants.” Eugenia feels entirely strange. Their mind hurts. It’s not their brain. Eugenia knows what it feels like when their brain hurts.
Mel smiles, the full warm version even Tiggy doesn’t see often.
Mel goes on “I would like a world where we had a better answer. Where you can somehow convince someone used to getting what they want, when they want it, because they want it, because they can harm anyone who will not surrender to them the substance of their desire until that desire is surrendered, that this Peace of ours is preferable, preferable enough to surrender their dominion. And have all who have obeyed that sorcerer comprehend the settled peace without non-consensual alteration. And … ” and Eugenia raises both hands to indicate surrender.
“Peace isn’t easy, isn’t functionally simple, it took a couple centuries to get it working, and it’s relatively easy to break. ‘Obey the dark lord’s orders’ is simple, and happens on its own.” Lily doesn’t sound happy.
“So if they leave us bide, fine. If they don’t leave us bide, I don’t ever want there to be concern for the shot supply.” Lily smiles honestly, so their face takes on a melting gentle beauty. “All come to die. Some may need to hasten.”
“Not ‘all come to dust’?” Eugenia can’t help but like Lily, and maybe the Creek saying is different, but the way Lily said hasten has set a shiver in Eugenia’s spine.
“Not all,” Lily says, grinning their regular grin again. “Not all.”
Chapter 18
Year of the Peace Established Five Hundred Forty-Four, Month of Floréal, Twenty-third Day
Eugenia is in the bay of the library with the Line curriculum books when they next meet Hank.
It’s early in the evening, and Hank hands Eugenia a small book.
“Can you read it?”
The cover says Decorum During Conflict in the characters and formal language of the ancient Kingdom of the Spider. Archaic characters; this is not the classic form of that language.
Eugenia almost drops the book, a lifetime of treating books with care being only just sufficient to retain some grip.
It opens just like a book, the paper crisp.
The printing date on the back of the title page has three digits for the year, one one six. The current year in that dating system is six five three two seven, though it takes Eugenia a moment to recall. It’s an octal numbering system. They don’t try to perform the conversion in their head.
“It looks new,” Eugenia says. The printing is sharp and clean and a black so dark it looks liquid.
“As a material object?” Hank says, entirely amiable.
Eugenia’s been trying not to think about that. They could abstract a book, not the contents of a book but the entirety of a material book, before, and those are still in their mind. Emitting a book, taking the entirety and making it materially real, was not something they expected to be able to do until after they had been an independent for some time, a century wouldn’t have been tardy. “Easier for stuff-stirrers than some”, Order had said.
There aren’t many people who could have produced this particular book. A book material the whole time would be a smudge somewhere, or maybe a vaguely book-shaped pattern of dry dust.
“Worth reading,” Hank says. “The perspective’s different.”
Eugenia giggles. It’s involuntary and just a touch crazed. The first chapter title is ‘The Necessity of Victory’.
Eugenia closes the book and then their face. Their thoughts they can put to the work at hand.
“That hot smell, during the test firing? That was the impulse spreader air pressure set inappropriately?”
Hank says “Yes.” Hank is obviously pleased. “Set the pressure too low and it aerosols some fluid.”
Glycerine and water, Eugenia knows. Glycerine has to be already hot to burn, and it was, but maybe not hot enough, or too diffuse, or too wet.
“First few times,” Hank says. “Then the tube hits the bumpers.”
Eugenia says it before they can think of reasons not to. “Would you read the draft operational handbook? I’d rather not present Captain Blossom with an actual idiocy,” Eugenia says. “I can’t ask you to catch all of them but there’s always things that aren’t in the books.”
“I’d be pleased,” Hank says, looking sympathetic.
Eugenia says “Thank you.”
Hank is a fellow Regular. Hank is cheerful and competent. Eugenia had looked Hank up, because ‘sometime master gunner’ had niggled as an odd phrasing and their evaluator’s warrant lets them read Line records.
Eugenia now knows Hank has recovered from being injured by a demon, one of a tiny number of people known to history of whom this is true. Eugenia is less certain how they feel about that than they are about the destroyed army or the lengthy service record or the active warrants of authority and commission. Hank commanded the Experimental Battery for seven years when it was the only artillery the Second Commonweal had.
Hank is still simpler to talk to. No matter how kind they are, most of the people in the edifice leave Eugenia feeling like they’re surrounded by heroic statuary come to life, and they can’t even convince themself there isn’t a sorcerer available who could have done it.
Hank looks like they’ve noticed Eugenia looking that little bit more socially comfortable.
“Couple things about Creeks,” Hank says, quietly. “To the great credit of their ilk of folk, Creeks react protectively to smaller people. They even usually manage to remember you’re not truly a child.”
Eugenia nods. That much, they have figured out.
“You know how a group of Regulars is certain to have the logistics figured out, but may not have anyone well able to fight?” Hank isn’t at all certain Eugenia knows this; they’re hoping.
Eugenia says “Yes,” because they do know that. Their former class was told they would be displaced and took four hours to pack everything required. Any sort of short notice travel, really, of which there had been a great deal, studying with Order. Weeding, despite a class composed of students militant by some nominal value of militant, had been an entirely different and deeply awkward question.
“Creeks are the other way around.” Hank says this as a simple fact.
Eugenia looks up and from side to side, meaning the whole of the edifice and all it implies. People have to bring food on time, and they do.
“They’re conscious of it, they make an effort to find planning skill. There’s reliance on a stability of custom. The refectory managers and people like Tankard or Chuckles do effective jobs, just like there are Line units composed of Regulars.”
Eugenia nods, carefully, being uncertain of the distinction.
“A bunch of Creek reservists fought in such fashion that a graul standard-captain didn’t see a need to comment.” Hank’s voice starts calm and goes dry.
Eugenia thinks about that. Somewhere in Eugenia’s mind a small voice says Oh.
“They’re not graul,” Hank says. “I’m sure allowances were made.” Eugenia isn’t willing to call Hank’s expression a smile.
“I wouldn’t have thought Creeks were particularly militant.”
Hank shrugs. “Small units having to maintain a focus and fight with weapons both at once is something you avoid because it’s never going to work. Only it did that time. Average contribution to the push is high, and they fight like they might be late for dinner.”
“Late for dinner?” Eugenia doesn’t understand.
“Typicals hate fighting, and when they must, they fight like crazy people. Amazons love fighting, and they fight like happy crazy people. Regulars stick to the drill and a motivational relief at not being dead yet. Creeks fight like there’s this big job of work and if they don’t get it done prompt, they’ll be late for dinner and the beer will be short.”
“I’ve been warned about the beer,” Eugenia says. It’s safe, it’s tasty to excellent by Eugenia’s palate, but it’s got twice or more the ethanol anyone a Regular expects out of beer.
“Graul,” Hank says “fight like they’re bored. Unless they might get to kill a sorcerer.”
Eugenia smiles. They can’t help it.
“Isn’t fighting failure?”
“Among ourselves?” Hank looks gentle. “Worse than failure. To keep the borders? Only if we do more of it than we must.”
“Order would disagree.”
Hank nods. “Order would. Order’s out of the beginning of the Commonweal, when fighting each other was a habit hard to break.”
This is a thought new to Eugenia.
“There are those who remember the Bad Old Days as they lived them.” Time has made this only strictly true, rather than the social truth it was, but it is still a saying of Order’s.
“Change comes to the world,” Hank says. “Maybe even to the god who ate us.”
Chapter 19
544-Florial-25
Esteemed Archibald,
I have now seen artillery in use. It was unnerving. Mild use, too, fling instead of heave. The old kind of artillery, the Line would ‘play catch’ with an artillery tube versus a company or platoon focus, but not with the new; the ‘toss’ strength is somewhere past where ‘fling’ used to be. Improvements in the design and an alteration of doctrine; instead of needing an artillery battery or sometimes a battalion to transfer enough kinetic energy to pin a major sorcerer, if one tube can do it, all the better, since the sorcerers are not guaranteed to arrive singly.
Which is logical and sensible and I still felt as though someone ought to be apologizing to the hill being used as a target.
Some of the works in the Line library section have Creek authors. Nothing on the main curriculum, which seems to have been kept as short as possible (if no shorter!), but several in the supplementary books. There’s a Creek tradition of stealth and deception and traps when it comes to sorcerers bent on conquest. It’s a deep tradition; three of the books are translations of pre-Commonweal prose works, and there’s one annotated but not translated collection of archaic poetry on the subject.
They don’t seem like stealthy people, and I’m not going to go weeding with a Creek team to see if that changes.
How to answer your question about militancy (and, by implication, the character of the Independent Block) has given me some difficulty of thought. Block has been in the Creeks, but almost entirely occupied with training Line recruits in basic — breath-and-centring-and-awareness basic — Power management when they were. Their reputation here is all with Line persons, and mostly those in heavy battalions. Those Line persons with experience of Block I have spoken to all agree they’re knowledgeable and merciless. (’Merciless’ is viewed with approval. ‘Anyone bent on conquest won’t be merciful’ seems to be the consensus, and it was by all reports a decidedly you-can-be-better merciless.)
So the specialists in group violence approve Block’s competence.
There I find myself much troubled. I have my entire adult life thought of an exercised modest talent as permissible, of great use of the Power as solely permissible, in a context of obedience to a general social obligation to trouble none. To be entirely unthreatening, to frighten no one, to exist as little as possible. To be aware at all times and in all things that my right to exist was entirely conditional and certain to be revoked for any error, that there is no forgiveness for any wrong exercise of the Power so it must contain no possibility of error.
With an active talent, it seemed a worthwhile trade. You have that still, and may hold so still.
For myself, I am finding matters less and less certain. I have seen what only Line custom does not call a fifty-person focus smite a distant hillside more thoroughly than ever you could or I might have hoped to do; I have seen —
(Here there was a long pause in composition, and I debated whether I should finish, or say another thing)
— When I was given the sensorium test piece, it was as giving someone made blind back their sight. There aren’t many that could be helped in this way; I know weeding teams have used sensorium bindings time out of mind as narrow specific things, I know that general sensory capacity bindings can’t be younger than Laurel’s first experiments with battle-standards, but there’s hardly anyone who would need a general sensorium device, have the ability to use it, and not already possess as much themself through their own Power. So I tried not to think about it, and told myself that the work was a cost of another thing, that I wasn’t wandering around with several décades of some wreaking team’s effort entirely to my benefit, and that it benefited the team I was here to help.
