Chapter 6

Commander Alexander stood in the middle of the cold, sleety, windswept little community the inhabitants called 'Bluefields' surveying the clusters of dejected men. Most were crouched down against the elements, for these people had not offered any shelter. To his mind, that was outrageous - the Seventh Hague Convention had lengthy clauses concerning the treatment of prisoners. Their captors, however, seemed unconcerned.

Alexander strode up to a group of their soldiers who seemed to be arguing over some of the captured supplies.

"Sirs?" he straightened up to his full height. He thought the obvious Officer-style cut of his uniform and the half tonne of gold braid on his shoulders should obtain a result.

"'Worstjes?" one of them said, "What the fuck is a 'worstje'?" Like them all, the soldier was dressed all in black with grey bandoliers. An automatic weapon was strapped, folded, to his back and around his neck was a red and black scarf.

"It's a fucking sausage - look at the picture on the label?" another explained.

"Ahem! Excuse me?" Alexander demanded, louder.

"Bullshit! Why put sausages in a can? If they were sausages they'd say fucking sausages."

"According to the Seventh Hague Convention..." Alexander continued.

"It's written in Belgian, you dummy! See? 'Fabrique en la Provence Belgique.' Can't you fucking read Belgian?"

"Belgian isn't a language," a newcomer announced. "That's French."

"If it's French why does it say Belgium, Easele? You being a smartass?"

"Because they speak French in Belgium, you dumb fuck! That and Dutch - Roger told me."

"How is Roger, Easele? You heard anything?"

The soldiers quietened down so Alexander tried again. "I demand you listen to me!" he yelled.

"Go fuck yourself," the man they called Easele told him and the group wandered away.

Next, Alexander saw a couple of older men sorting through a pile of captured weapons. Although lacking any obvious rank insignia, he assumed these two would at least be officer grade. He walked over.

"A pile of shit!" Delios told Mikele. "Not worth my while hauling them to Iberica. Couldn't trade them for a steak sandwich." He kicked over a pile of stacked rifles.

"Trophies?" Mikele suggested. "You put them in a room and trade folks a clip of standard ammo for a look."

"Y'reckon? Shit, look at the mechanisms on these things?" he clicked his tongue.

"Sir?" Alexander tried to interrupt. "I wish to speak to your commanding officer?"

"Whoa!" cried Delios. "What's that? It's shiny!"

"Ah, that's a plasma rifle. You'd get a good trade on that."

"Sir? The Seventh Hague Convention..."

"How does it work?" Delios asked, brushing past the enemy commander.

"Well, see, at the back, here, is the power pack containing a High Output Rechargeable Cell. This, here, 'HORC', is coupled to the Reaction Chamber containing an excitable coil and main capacitor bank..."

"You swallowed a fucking dictionary, Mikele?"

"Your Commanding Officer..."

"Roger told me how it works," Mikele responded. "That's cooled with liquid Nitrogen down to practically absolute zero. You can't have absolute zero else all matter ceases..."

"Obviously," Delios looked skeptical. "You're making shit up - that's a load of bullshit..."

"YOUR COMMANDING..."

"Who the fuck are you?" Mikele asked Alexander. "Why you shouting?"

"My name is Commander Alexander," he replied, panting. "I've been trying to find your commanding officer so I may make proper arrangements for the care of my men. According to the Seventh Hague Convention..."

"The seventh who?" Delios scratched his head.

"What arrangements are you talking about?" Mikele asked, puzzled. "We beat you fair and square in battle - you suck it up!"

"My troops are all out in the open," the Commander explained. "There will cases of hyperthermia, frostbite..."

"So? We didn't clothe them," said Delios, still scratching his head.

Alexander appraised the two men. Again, like their fellows, they were dressed in black with automatic weapons strapped to their backs. The taller of the two had long, black hair and beard. The other, too, had a beard, but, not as long. The Commander concluded beards were 'de rigeur' among these soldiers.

"Some of my men are in poor shape..." Alexander continued.

"Listen?" Mikele flashed in anger. "Just who the hell do you think you are? You attacked us - for what reason?"

"On contract, of course. Why else would we?"

"What 'contract'? You saying you're mercenaries?"

"'Mercenary' is not a term in my vocabulary. We are contract soldiers."

Mikele and Delios looked at each other in astonishment. "What fucking contract? Who hired you?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"The hell you are?" Delios exclaimed. "I'll warm you up, all right - maybe on a spit over an open fire?"

"Just a minute?" Alexander protested. "According to the Seventh Hague Convention..."

"This 'Hague' can go fuck himself," Delios spat.

"Your Commander?"

"We have no 'Commanders'," Mikele told him. "We are autonomous with no hierarchy."

"That's impossible!" Alexander scoffed. "No army can fight in that fashion - particularly against properly organised, professional soldiers."

"Oh, yeah?" chuckled Delios. "'Professional'? Lessee? Inadequate clothing, shit for weapons and, as for your tactics, well?"

"We were contracted to perform a simple clearance operation," Alexander explained. "We were not expecting determined resistance by experienced soldiers so well equipped."

"I take that as a compliment," Mikele scratched his beard.

"And so well lead?" Delios suggested.

"As you say." Alexander agreed.

"See, my boy?" Delios clapped Mikele across the back.

"Clearance?" Mikele looked perplexed. "You're saying like moving goats out of the orchard?"

"Rats out of the barn?" Delios added. "You drive my friends off their land? For what reason?"

"Our employers had contact with some, ah, people who claimed their colony here was besieged by bandits."

"Ah? And guesses who might make such a claim?" Mikele rolled his eyes. "Alexander? You've been conned. Our community was here first and Allsinger and his followers tried to push us off it. We Arks are not easily pushed around."

"Arks, is it? Yes, I see. Well, anyway, I think you'll agree we ought to act like gentlemen and abide by the Seventh, ah, international treaties?"

"Alexander?" Mikele stiffened. "My brother is now blind and requiring reconstructive surgery. Whether he will see again is anyone's guess. My son is slowly recovering from a bullet in the lung and my other son from a smashed shoulder. The girl I regard as a daughter was flogged with a bull whip and her lover shot through the thigh. My brother's daughter is nursing a broken arm and I can count another seven or so casualties from among my friends and family. Besides that, our children and elderly were forced to flee at the onset of the storm season onto the high plateau. Couple that with the disruption caused at a difficult time of the year to our main business of horse breeding. Personally, I don't give a rat's ass for your fucking treaties. Neither do I give a toss for your 'gentlemen' and your 'professionals.' I am Mikele of the Duretti band of the Arks and I'm telling you to get the fuck off our land and never come back. Our comrade Matthew Kohn has made contact with your Government through Short Wave Radio. They have agreed to charter an airship to come and fetch you. However, it cannot arrive until after the storms have passed. Until, then, you can fucking freeze for all I care."

"Well said, Mikele!" Delios grinned.

"Yay!" Rasida clapped, having stopped to listen to the speech. She and Ras watched the enemy commander stalk off back to his men. Plucking at Ras's hand, she towed him back towards the house. "Let's go back?" she suggested. "I'm so glad Mikele's getting the recognition he deserves. For so long he's hung back in Roger's shadow - they love each other like brothers, you know?"

"Yeah. I see. I guess they go back a long way?"

"The longest! Everyone kind of looks to Roger to come up with the ideas. Don't get me wrong - Roger's clever and mostly gets it right. But, y'know, I kind of feel sorry for Mikele. He just defers to Roger in just about everything. Back at the Fall, he had to take over - there was no-one else. He stepped up and good on him, I say."

"The guys were saying that it's not necessarily what a leader does that's important - it's what he doesn't do."

"Hey, I like that! See? At the Fall, he could've sent everybody into the attack before the Montseny's arrived and they would've been shot to hell. The guys would've followed him too, gladly. But, Mikele knew he had responsibility for every bullet the guys took. That's why we had so few casualties. He only attacked when he knew the enemy was beaten. That's smart!"

"And good judgement?" Ras considered.

"Exactly! You want we should check out these French sausages the guys are going on about?"

"Sure!"

Among the enemy soldiers, however, Matthew Kohn wandered from one to the other - checking their condition and rendering first aid. He was a little perturbed at the way the Arks were treating them. After all, they were fellow human beings, no matter what evils they'd agreed to do for pay. He figured this was all about Roger, and the damage their plasma weapon had done to him. These Arks prided themselves on their lack of hierarchy, but Roger was as near a spiritual leader he'd ever seen.

He'd observed Sean Beth in action, displaying all her admirable qualities. No better consort for a leader of a community could ever be imagined. Something had gone from this place with their departure - some sense of order, of focus, of, indeed, heart! Their very presence seem to infuse everyone with a strength of purpose. Was it significant they were reared in different cultures?

Perhaps the only significant flaw in the Ark culture was their very eschewing of civil structure of any kind? They were a community of individuals, priding themselves on their 'autonomy', but, civilisations looked to natural leaders to articulate their will. Maybe, after all, this was the simple expression of a natural law - one the Arks would be horrified with if they chose to acknowledge it.

Roger and Sean Beth wouldn't have tolerated the ill treatment of prisoners - be it deliberate torture or neglect. Matthew Kohn decided he must do something by default - his basic sense of humanity demanded it.

"Son? Rasida?" he called, as he saw them walking past. "I could use a hand?"

"What?" Rasida said, looking at Ras, then back again. After a moment's hesitation, they came over. "What do you want us to do?" Rasida asked.

"Rasida?" he told her. "You are your parents' child!"

"Huh? What else would I be?" she replied, confused.

"Indeed!" he smiled.

Rada, too, padded over to help out and even John, on crutches, volunteered his aid. Soon, other Arks joined the effort until at least a good dozen were moving through the prisoners. Matthew Kohn moved some of the weakest into shelter in vacant cottages and tents and sent people to find anything they could with which to construct windbreaks. He was now sure that, in a few days, some more permanent arrangements could be found for their accommodation.

Mikele, Delios, and most of the older Arks, however, seemed more concerned with what they could pillage from the enemy's supplies and equipment.

Far off, out on the plateau, three riders braced themselves against the howling winds. George and Charity insisted they accompany Sean Beth to Iberica. When Roger's partner arrived at the way cabin, she found Roger had already gone. Her parents, Jack and Janet, had decided Roger's best chance lay at the centre of the Ark Preserve. They'd left a day and a half before and Sean Beth reckoned it would take them a good three to four days to catch them up.