the grand old Army of the Potomac it's Sergeant Major Hans Schuder. That army created the Republic here on this world. It had to create the Republic to mirror what it was and always will be. Draw on that, Colonel Keane, whenever you feel like you now do."
Andrew smiled at Emil. "Again the philosopher."
"What old Jew like me isn't a philosopher?" Emil said with an answering smile.
Andrew nodded. "I know something's coming." He hesitated. "There's been the other dreams. Somewhat the same as with Jamuka."
Emil looked closely at Andrew.
"It was a look inside of me, the same way I told you Tamuka tried to do during the war. Some of the Horde seem to have that, and this one is strong, far stronger. His mind is different," Andrew paused, as if looking for the right word. "Modem. That's it, modern. He thinks differently and that, my friend, frightens me."
Emil looked at him, his features drawn. "If you are frightened, Andrew, then maybe we all should be."
"Battalion … attenshun!"
Major General Vincent Hawthorne scanned the line as the troops arrayed before him snapped to shoulders. He felt a cool shiver of delight at the sound. The Fifth Suzdal, "Hawthorne's Guards," stood arrayed before him. With access to blue dye gained by trading with the Asgard, the Army of the Republic was gradually adopting the traditional uniform of their mentors—sky-blue trousers, navy-blue four-button jacket, and black felt slouch caps. The sight of his regiment dressed in the cherished blue made his heart beat faster. He looked up at the colors snapping in the breeze, his gaze lingering on the shot-torn standard of the regiment emblazoned with the names of half a dozen hard-fought battles.
Deployed next to them was a company of sailors wearing the blue trousers, blue-and-white-checkered shirts, and white neckerchiefs of the navy, with Admiral Bullfinch proudly standing in front of them in his finest double-breasted blue frock coat, his handsome features made exotic and slightly dangerous-looking by the black eye patch.
As the train drifted to a stop, venting steam, the band gave a single ruffle and flourish as befitted the commander of the armies, and then broke into "Battle Cry of Freedom."
Vincent, joined by Bullfinch, turned and walked to the last car and, coming to attention, saluted as Andrew stepped out onto the platform. Andrew, smiling, snapped off a salute to the colors and then to Vincent and Bullfinch. He climbed off the train, and walked down the line of troops, followed by Pat and Emil, who peered curiously at the men, as if looking for a telltale cough or a sign of fever.
"The men look good," Andrew stated, loud enough so his words could be heard, "but then again, I wouldn't expect anything less from the old Fifth."
Behind the line of troops Andrew saw the crowd of curious onlookers, the hundreds of railroad men, dockhands, shipbuilders, and factory workers who were laboring at what was now the railhead of the eastward expansion of the Republic. As they left the platform Andrew smiled at Vincent.
"It's been how long?"
"Four months since I was last in Suzdal."
"Good to see you, Vincent."
"And you too, sir. My family?"
"That poor girl," Pat laughed. "Good heavens, is she pregnant!"
"She's all right, isn't she?" He looked at Emil.
"Don't worry. Another two months. She's doing fine."
"Maybe you should stay out here another year and give her some rest," Pat interjected.
Vincent fixed his old friend with a cool stare, and Pat held up his hands in surrender.
"Ah, those Quaker sensibilities of yours. All right, but good heavens, the way you make babes I'd think you were an Irishman."
"How's my father-in-law?"
Andrew shook his head.
"Our president is proving to be a president."
"He's a pain, he is," Pat interjected. "Wants to cut the budget again, divert rail development back into Rus, and Marcus agrees—as long as it means extra lines inside Roum. And he wants to cut the training and field assignment of new troops
Andrew smiled at Emil. "Again the philosopher."
"What old Jew like me isn't a philosopher?" Emil said with an answering smile.
Andrew nodded. "I know something's coming." He hesitated. "There's been the other dreams. Somewhat the same as with Jamuka."
Emil looked closely at Andrew.
"It was a look inside of me, the same way I told you Tamuka tried to do during the war. Some of the Horde seem to have that, and this one is strong, far stronger. His mind is different," Andrew paused, as if looking for the right word. "Modem. That's it, modern. He thinks differently and that, my friend, frightens me."
Emil looked at him, his features drawn. "If you are frightened, Andrew, then maybe we all should be."
"Battalion … attenshun!"
Major General Vincent Hawthorne scanned the line as the troops arrayed before him snapped to shoulders. He felt a cool shiver of delight at the sound. The Fifth Suzdal, "Hawthorne's Guards," stood arrayed before him. With access to blue dye gained by trading with the Asgard, the Army of the Republic was gradually adopting the traditional uniform of their mentors—sky-blue trousers, navy-blue four-button jacket, and black felt slouch caps. The sight of his regiment dressed in the cherished blue made his heart beat faster. He looked up at the colors snapping in the breeze, his gaze lingering on the shot-torn standard of the regiment emblazoned with the names of half a dozen hard-fought battles.
Deployed next to them was a company of sailors wearing the blue trousers, blue-and-white-checkered shirts, and white neckerchiefs of the navy, with Admiral Bullfinch proudly standing in front of them in his finest double-breasted blue frock coat, his handsome features made exotic and slightly dangerous-looking by the black eye patch.
As the train drifted to a stop, venting steam, the band gave a single ruffle and flourish as befitted the commander of the armies, and then broke into "Battle Cry of Freedom."
Vincent, joined by Bullfinch, turned and walked to the last car and, coming to attention, saluted as Andrew stepped out onto the platform. Andrew, smiling, snapped off a salute to the colors and then to Vincent and Bullfinch. He climbed off the train, and walked down the line of troops, followed by Pat and Emil, who peered curiously at the men, as if looking for a telltale cough or a sign of fever.
"The men look good," Andrew stated, loud enough so his words could be heard, "but then again, I wouldn't expect anything less from the old Fifth."
Behind the line of troops Andrew saw the crowd of curious onlookers, the hundreds of railroad men, dockhands, shipbuilders, and factory workers who were laboring at what was now the railhead of the eastward expansion of the Republic. As they left the platform Andrew smiled at Vincent.
"It's been how long?"
"Four months since I was last in Suzdal."
"Good to see you, Vincent."
"And you too, sir. My family?"
"That poor girl," Pat laughed. "Good heavens, is she pregnant!"
"She's all right, isn't she?" He looked at Emil.
"Don't worry. Another two months. She's doing fine."
"Maybe you should stay out here another year and give her some rest," Pat interjected.
Vincent fixed his old friend with a cool stare, and Pat held up his hands in surrender.
"Ah, those Quaker sensibilities of yours. All right, but good heavens, the way you make babes I'd think you were an Irishman."
"How's my father-in-law?"
Andrew shook his head.
"Our president is proving to be a president."
"He's a pain, he is," Pat interjected. "Wants to cut the budget again, divert rail development back into Rus, and Marcus agrees—as long as it means extra lines inside Roum. And he wants to cut the training and field assignment of new troops
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