Red Shift

He held the fragments like crushed ice. Shallow, pales lines crazed his skin. He felt nothing.

The hard, smooth terror was in him. He saw the birches carved, bent to shapes that were not trees but men, animals, and the hardness and the terror were blue and silver on the edge of vision. He opened his cloak, and Logan saw him strike at the guard with something smooth held between his hands. The guard fell, and Macey jumped from the road to the ditch.

“Follow the kid!” shouted Logan. “Move!”

They drove for the wood. Logan snatched the rein of a pack mule. The air thrummed and hissed arrows. The mule’s baggage was a shield, but Logan stumbled over men on the open ground.

Macey was behind a birch, wiping his hands on rags, wrapping, thrusting the rags under his cloak.

“Come on, kid!”

“No,” said Macey. “Stop. And the others.”

“Move!”

“No.”

The guards were still on the road. They had not followed.

Macey went to the edge of the trees. “This,” he called across the ditch, “for all men, in the name of the keeper of the place.”

“Don’t push it,” said Logan.

“They won’t touch sanctuary,” said Buzzard.

Logan looked about him at the worked trees. “Where are we?”

“Rudheath.”

“It’s a Cats’ sanctuary,” said Face.

“And Cats is allies,” said Magoo.

“The country’s federation ground hereabouts,” said Buzzard.

“Federation ballocks,” said Magoo. “Cats is Cats.”

“I don’t trust nobody past Crewe,” said Logan. “Get further into the wood.”

They retreated until the guards and the road were lost.

“How good’s this sanctuary?” said Logan.

“Depends how the Cats rate it,” said Face, “and what they figure the army’ll pay to get us back.”

“The road must’ve clipped the sanctuary,” said Buzzard. “Reckon the army won’t be too popular.”

“We need hardware,” said Magoo. “Ain’t nothing on the mule.”

“Go see what you can find on the dead guys,” said Logan. “There may be a knife, or something.”

“Lotta use that’ll be,” said Face.

“It’s a start.”

“We was marching degraded, remember?” said Magoo. “Hey, what was that Macey pulled on the guard?”

“Not!” said Macey. He sat by a tree. Sweat from his hand had soaked the rags. The hardness wrapped in tatters hung at his shoulder, beneath his cloak. The weight of it was heavy for the first time, heavier than anything ever.

“Aw, come on, goofball.”

“He said no.” Logan watched the men.

“What’ll we do?” said Face.

“We’ll soldier,” said Logan. “We’re the Ninth.”

“There ain’t no Ninth,” said Face. “Why are you carrying on like we wasn’t busted?”

“I don’t give a toss what some minging stonemason does because he thinks he can run an army. Let him build his goddam wall, and the rest of the crap, but we’re still the Ninth, not brickies. Right?”

They looked at each other, and at the sanctuary.

“Yeh.”

“Anybody claim rank over me?” said Logan. “Right. We’re back on duty. Military discipline will apply. Face, Buzzard check out this place. You still waiting?” he said to Magoo.

Macey was inert, wrapped in his cloak. “My mates,” he said.

Logan tethered the mule. “That was pretty smart, kid. I thought you’d flipped.”

Macey looked up at him. He seemed to be terrified.

“We’d all’ve gone if you hadn’t used it,” said Logan.

“You didn’t see.”

“I saw enough.”

“You mustn’t see!”

“You used the stone axe from way back.”

“No. They’re never used.”

“Logan held out his hand. “I’d sure appreciate it—”

“No! But I had to. You’re my mates. Not for me. My mates.”