one man who’d brought rope. Don’t know where they expected to find a tree out there on the plains. ‘If you insist,’ he said. ‘If you insist, there will be a trial.’
“And there we were. There was no arguin’ with him. He led us out to the edge of the camp—where we could see, against the settin’ sun, the black smoke of the Line approachin’, closing the miles between us. And he had the boy brought out. He struggled, but by the General’s orders, he was not yet to be harmed. We chose a jury by lot. One of the men had the Commentaries on the Law of Our Fathers in his pack—not you, was it, Rutledge? no?—and that served us as a guide. Crime was not common in our camps, you understand. Not common at all. We sat the jury on feed sacks. We brought out torches and oil lamps for the General to read the Commentaries by. He was very insistent that he not serve as judge; not if he was to execute the boy’s fate himself. We chose the judge by lot, too. A chaplain, I think. Could have got yourself an early start in the judgin’ game, eh, Rutledge? I remember the boy’s face in the light of the torches. We determined by questionin’ that he was of an age to stand trial. Malnourished as he was, he might have been an infant, you see. And the sun set, and we watched the Line’s smoke get closer. We watched the three black specks that rose from the Line’s camp, against that red sky; we watched them come closer, closer, until we could hear the whine of the rotor blades and we knew the Vessels were on us. And still, under the General’s glarin’ eyes, we conducted our trial. We heard evidence. There was doubt as to whether the boy was under our jurisdiction at all, as I recall. Even as the Line approached. It was a point of principle. That was the man he was. You know, I forget now what happened to the boy. But how fiercely the General fought when the Vessels arrived! When it was time to set aside law and reason and take up a rifle—as the lead and the gas and the shatterin’ noise rained down on us! Why, then . . .”
But no one was listening to Morton’s story anymore. No one had been for some time. Apart from Liv, everyone assembled at the table appeared to have had heard the story many times. As Morton talked, lost in his past, his young wife had leaned over the table and asked Liv: What were the houses of the outside world like? What was it like to live in a house of stone or glass? What was it like to wear silk?
“And the Smilers?” Waite said. “Are they still doing their good works?”
“I suppose so. I’ve heard of them. Sirs, I passed through that world very quickly. . . .”
Waite nodded and smiled complacently. “Well, I’d like to hear more if anything comes to you. In the meantime, I’ll just have faith we’re doing well.” Morton and Rutledge murmured approval, as if Waite had said something clever or brave.
Dr. Bradley quizzed Liv on medical science. It turned out, not to Liv’s particular surprise, that he had backwards ideas about the brain. No doubt he was a good field surgeon. She tried not to embarrass him. She did not entirely succeed. He scowled behind his mustaches. The right side of his face had been badly burned, so that it was blotched and red and shiny-swollen. His eyes were very blue, very intelligent and fierce.
Captain Morton’s young wife filled the dinner party’s mugs—dented old metal steins, three shot glasses, a chipped china mug, the rest were of carved polished wood—with New Design’s rough wormwood-tasting brew. Only for the men; the wives and Liv drank water. Dr. Bradley drank rather too much.
“Is the General in your care, now, Dr. Bradley?”
He wouldn’t answer. She spoke quickly.
“May I see him, Dr. Bradley? I was making progress with him, I believe, and I believe he has vital intelligence, something in his memories frightens the Gun, and perhaps we might make use of it to defend this place. Doctor?”
Bradley barked, “He doesn’t need the help of strangers.”
The table went awkwardly silent for a minute; and so Captain Morton proposed another toast to the General, to his heroism and unyielding courage and apparent unkillability: As if he’s as immortal