Red Shift

“Let there be no strife,” shouted Macey, “for we are brothers! The distance is gone between us!”

“Chickenshit! Where’s the big words? Come on! You’ve flipped! The big words, so’s you can go!”

“The strong bull of earth!” sang Macey, “The white bull bellows!”

“That’s it, kid!”

“I am above you!

I am a man!

I am the man of all gifts, and all giving!

Prepare my way for me!”

“You’re there!” Logan threw off the harness. But Macey jerked with a force that Logan had never felt in him. The sword still pointed, but the body was too rigid to move.

“The distance is gone between us!

Silver cloud lost!

Blue sky away!

Stars turn!”

Logan held on. The strength in Macey he had never known, and the words were not his.

“The wind blows – through sharp – thorns, for we are brothers, through the sharp hawthorn Tom’s a cold angler in the lake of darkness, blow the winds, blow, blew, blow, silver go! Go!”

Macey broke from the tree, straight for the camp. Logan staggered after him. Magoo, Face, Buzzard fell aside and Macey ran by, across the thorn spikes, and vaulted the stockade.

“He’s flipped like all get out! He’s going wide open! He ain’t selective!”

They pulled the tent over the ditch. Four guards had attacked Macey and lay dead. He was in the roundhut, killing startled men as they moved from sleep.

“How many?” said Logan.

“Nineteen,” said Buzzard.

“Escapes?”

“Negative. We zapped them good.”

“Where’s Macey?”

“Usual.”

“Stopped?”

“Yep. Turned right off. Crashed out. I left him spewing by the hut. He’ll sleep now.”

“Right,” said Logan. “Magoo, you go round up what’s left. Check them out, Face.”

“Yessir.”

Logan went to Macey, who was curled around his sword, blank-eyed, face clawed white with tears.

“Boy,” said Logan. “Was that some. He ain’t never gone like that before.”

The woman and children were being gathered into the open space before the hut.

“I don’t read you here, sir,” said Buzzard.

“Grow up, soldier. You’ve seen this before.”

“That was punitive.”

“And I keep telling you this is a different war, and we follow it through.”

“You call this following through?”

“You tell me,” said Logan, “for once. Aw, go find some hardware, if you don’t like it.”

“I’ll do just that,” said Buzzard.

There was no reaction from the people, no pleading or sounds, as they died.

Buzzard collected weapons while the killing began. “You following through, soldier?” said Logan. “You going to wear that cloak you picked up? Who made it? If you won’t have those people die, they don’t exist, so how come you wear a cloak that no one made? It’s cold on Mow Cop, soldier, and wind blows right through cloaks that ain’t real.”

Buzzard flung everything to the ground and ran towards the open space: but the others had finished for him.

“Decapitate,” said Logan. “Then find yourselves clothing and equipment.”

“What the hell you at?” shouted Buzzard. “Ain’t this enough?”

“Tribal raid, soldier. Decapitate. They’re all right. They’re dead.”

“Go stuff yourself,” said Buzzard. “You ain’t real any more, Logan: you ain’t the Ninth. You’re screwed.”

Logan struck him under the ribs with a spear. Buzzard looked at Logan and at the spear they both held. “You Mother,” said Buzzard.

“Can we afford that, sir?” said Face.

Logan drew out the spear.

“He was the best scout we ever had, that’s all,” said Face. “We ain’t overstrength.”

“You arguing?”