THAT. HE’S JUST A CHILD SENT TO CARRY A MAN’S MESSAGE. AND HE’S HUNGRY. VERY HUNGRY. I CAN HEAR HIS STOMACH GROWLING FROM HERE, Mimzy concluded.
LET’S SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I FEED HIM, thought Sergeant Bruce. He kept one hand on the trigger of his weapon. With the other, he pulled the string on the ration sack. Several biscuits escaped to fall in the dirt at his feet, but he still held a handful. Those he tossed at the kid.
The kid went for the food with both hands, fumbled the catch, then grabbed for them as they fell to the ground. He ended up with one in his mouth and two in each hand. That left him in a poor situation to continue the bargaining.
Sergeant Bruce took the opportunity to jack up his voice via Chesty’s speaker. “I am a Royal Wardhaven Marine. I can be your best friend or your worst nightmare. My king considers Kaskatos as neutral territory, claimed by no one but the folks who work the land. Word is that you’ve come on hard times. The Red Cross, Red Star, and Red Crescent have loaded a lot of food on our ship and asked us to distribute it to those in need.” He paused for a moment to look up and down the line facing him.
“I think they include you folks.” He turned to Kris. “Princess Kristine, would you roll the food carts out here, please?”
The local laborers looked terrified at the thought of going any closer to the armed thugs, but Mr. Annam motioned to them, and they stepped forward. Each of the carts had two handles. It took two people on each to get the carts moving. Kris considered ordering Marines to do the work but dropped the idea as the carts trundled past her.
For the rest of her life, Kris would wonder why she didn’t listen to her first instinct.
The eight laborers pushed the carts and their load of famine rations out into the no-man’s-land between the Marines and the townspeople. The laborers were exhausted by the work they’d done already today. The road was rutted and made for hard going.
It jostled the cart.
Someone with the best of intentions had piled sacks of rations as high as they could reach.
About the time the carts reached Sergeant Bruce, all the good intentions came apart.
First a single sack fell off to burst in the dust of the road. Then a couple of dozen bags tumbled as one whole side of the pile gave way.
For a long moment you could hear the sound of sacks sliding, bouncing off the carts’ wheels, plopping onto the dusty trail.
Then there were shouts from the milling mob across the way. Shouts and screams. Like a stampeding herd of desperate animals, they broke ranks and charged for the food.
“Bruce, get out of there,” Kris ordered on net. “Get the locals and get out of there.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m moving.”
The sergeant didn’t need to say a word to the locals. They could see what was headed their way and bolted for safety before the Marine could even turn around.
Starved and exhausted they might be, but if Kris had had a timer, she suspected the record for the mad hundred-meter dash would have fallen that afternoon.
The laborers didn’t stop running when they hit the Marine line but kept right on going. Kris hoped they remembered to stop when they hit the plantation, but she wouldn’t bet on that.
Kris had no time to follow them; her eyes were on the on-rushing mob. Sergeant Bruce backpedaled fifteen or twenty meters past the food carts, then, rifle at the ready, stood his ground.
The kid who’d given the speech took the opportunity to load up on five or six sacks, and made a run back to the truck line. Of course, to do that, he had to pass through the onrushing mob.
One guy swinging a machete took his head off.
Four or five of the closest people grabbed for the blood-spattered sacks and ripped into them. They didn’t bother reading the instructions, so it took them longer to get at the ration biscuits than it should have.
The scene when the mob hit the carts was just as bad. They bowled them over. People went
LET’S SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I FEED HIM, thought Sergeant Bruce. He kept one hand on the trigger of his weapon. With the other, he pulled the string on the ration sack. Several biscuits escaped to fall in the dirt at his feet, but he still held a handful. Those he tossed at the kid.
The kid went for the food with both hands, fumbled the catch, then grabbed for them as they fell to the ground. He ended up with one in his mouth and two in each hand. That left him in a poor situation to continue the bargaining.
Sergeant Bruce took the opportunity to jack up his voice via Chesty’s speaker. “I am a Royal Wardhaven Marine. I can be your best friend or your worst nightmare. My king considers Kaskatos as neutral territory, claimed by no one but the folks who work the land. Word is that you’ve come on hard times. The Red Cross, Red Star, and Red Crescent have loaded a lot of food on our ship and asked us to distribute it to those in need.” He paused for a moment to look up and down the line facing him.
“I think they include you folks.” He turned to Kris. “Princess Kristine, would you roll the food carts out here, please?”
The local laborers looked terrified at the thought of going any closer to the armed thugs, but Mr. Annam motioned to them, and they stepped forward. Each of the carts had two handles. It took two people on each to get the carts moving. Kris considered ordering Marines to do the work but dropped the idea as the carts trundled past her.
For the rest of her life, Kris would wonder why she didn’t listen to her first instinct.
The eight laborers pushed the carts and their load of famine rations out into the no-man’s-land between the Marines and the townspeople. The laborers were exhausted by the work they’d done already today. The road was rutted and made for hard going.
It jostled the cart.
Someone with the best of intentions had piled sacks of rations as high as they could reach.
About the time the carts reached Sergeant Bruce, all the good intentions came apart.
First a single sack fell off to burst in the dust of the road. Then a couple of dozen bags tumbled as one whole side of the pile gave way.
For a long moment you could hear the sound of sacks sliding, bouncing off the carts’ wheels, plopping onto the dusty trail.
Then there were shouts from the milling mob across the way. Shouts and screams. Like a stampeding herd of desperate animals, they broke ranks and charged for the food.
“Bruce, get out of there,” Kris ordered on net. “Get the locals and get out of there.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m moving.”
The sergeant didn’t need to say a word to the locals. They could see what was headed their way and bolted for safety before the Marine could even turn around.
Starved and exhausted they might be, but if Kris had had a timer, she suspected the record for the mad hundred-meter dash would have fallen that afternoon.
The laborers didn’t stop running when they hit the Marine line but kept right on going. Kris hoped they remembered to stop when they hit the plantation, but she wouldn’t bet on that.
Kris had no time to follow them; her eyes were on the on-rushing mob. Sergeant Bruce backpedaled fifteen or twenty meters past the food carts, then, rifle at the ready, stood his ground.
The kid who’d given the speech took the opportunity to load up on five or six sacks, and made a run back to the truck line. Of course, to do that, he had to pass through the onrushing mob.
One guy swinging a machete took his head off.
Four or five of the closest people grabbed for the blood-spattered sacks and ripped into them. They didn’t bother reading the instructions, so it took them longer to get at the ration biscuits than it should have.
The scene when the mob hit the carts was just as bad. They bowled them over. People went
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