Part One: On The Field Of War

Keats was seriously concerned with his ability to breathe. The air was thick with smoke around him, and he could hear explosions in the distance. It was getting so that a man could hardly take a breath. It didn’t matter. He could get clear soon enough. He just needed a minute.

A quick look around—so far as anyone could look in this go se-- told him that no one was nearby. Good. He took out his ‘corder, a piece of plastic that seemed for all the world to be a miniature figurine of St. Jude. He pressed down on the saint’s arm and felt the faint click of the switch slipping into place.

“Thirteenth to rendezvous in orbit around Shadow,” he said, voice low enough that it barely registered. “Ninety-fifth to go up around the left ridge to flank. Twenty-seven, forty-five, one-oh-two, out.” He released the arm, then pressed the foot to send. The same slight click told him that the switch had been tripped. Keats kept the pressure on it for another moment, just to be sure. He pressed the statue to his forehead, bowing as though in prayer.

St. Jude. Patron saint of the helpless, and it fit.

As his hand slipped from the statue and lifted from the pocket, another noise joined the cacophony around him. Someone shouting. It was his name.

“Ta ma duh, Keats! What the guay you doin’ out here?” Keats looked up, saw a figure heading towards him through the smoke and explosive flashes.

“Got lost out in this go se.” Keats no longer spoke in the uncertain, cultured voice that he’d used his entire life; it was a bit rough, a bit crude, like that of the boys he’d hated on Persephone. It was a perfect imitation, and it worked. “Where in the hell is everyone, Patrick?”

“They’re on up over here. Y’know, Keats, I saw what you were doin’.” Keats froze for a second before he realized, somehow, that Patrick couldn’t possibly know what he’d actually been doing. “You need to pray, you do it on your own time. Stopping like that’s liable to get you blowed-up real good.”

“Sorry, Corporal,” Keats said, summoning up his best rueful smile. “Won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” He cuffed Keats around the neck as the two began running. “C’mon. We’re makin’ ground up on the ridge.”

A low rumble carried across the atmosphere as he spoke. Keats raised his eyebrows and grinned despite himself. “Sounds like it.”

Patrick went quiet, listened to the sounds around him; Keats’s grin turned to a frown as he realized what the corporal was hearing

“Ai ya, hwai luh. Those ain’t ours. Move it, private!”

Keats nodded to Patrick, began running as though the wind were chasing him. As his feet hit the ground, pounding in a one-two rhythm, Keats’s mind became clear. Focused.

They were heading for the ridge, the ridge that he’d told the scout ship about. Whatever they found there, it sure as hell wouldn’t be good. He ran, pounding against the ground, stumbling, mind clear and focused and afraid.

When they got there, what would he do? He couldn’t blow his cover. Fight the soldiers? What if it was his dad? Tsai boo shr, his dad was up on one of the tall ships; no way he’d be down there. Each breath burned in his chest as he sucked down smoke and air, straining, pushing himself to the breaking point.

Patrick. He liked Patrick. Good man; good corporal. Kept tabs on each of them, made sure those in charge didn’t forget about ‘em. Shared his canteen when Keats dropped his, even though it was his own gorram fault. Didn’t fit the stereotype of the my-way-or-no-way, prejudiced, backwards patois-talking rebels. He earned the respect of all the privates, Keats included.

So when he thought Patrick might be headed into a trap. . .well, it didn’t make him very good about himself.

“You won’t be proud. But you’ll do it, and you’ll do it right.”

The words echoed in his head. He understood them better now, six months on, better than he ever had before. There were things a man could do that could make him ashamed, even though he was right to do it. Keats could feel that shame rising in his throat, hard and heavy as stone.

He couldn’t explain why he liked Patrick. Something about him that said he was a good man. Yeah, Keats could justify it, say that it was because of how he treated the men, because of the small kindnesses that meant everything. But it was more than that.

Sometimes, Keats just found himself knowing someone, no matter what kind of face they had. Could be trying to be tough, could be trying to seem nicer or harder or just plain different—it didn’t matter. Keats saw through it, somehow, could tell from the set of man’s jaw if he was more inclined to believe words or fists, could tell from his eyes if he meant harm. The talent kept him safe, and made him an excellent liar.

Not that it didn’t have its bad side; that same talent also let him know that his father didn’t really give a good gorram what happened to his disappointment of a kid. But Keats was working on that.

Also, that same talent told him that Patrick would lay down his life for the men he served with. No questions, no hesitation. That bit was harder to reckon with.

Well, Keats had to keep up his cover. He might as well do a good job of it. Nothing said that taking the ridge had to be easy.

They circled around a stand of rocks, then stopped just out of view. Patrick leaned in close, only a few inches from Keats’s ear.

“All right—we got a group of ‘em over there, heading toward the main flank. Don’t know how they know, but that’s where they’re goin’. They don’t have much in the way of weapons, but Sarge ain’t gonna see ‘em ‘till he brings his folk ‘round the corner there. I think we can slow ‘em down some. What do you say?”

Keats grinned wide, baring his teeth; it was a feral look. When he spoke, his voice was low, precise. “Shr ah, Pat.”

Patrick gave him a quick, assessing look; he seemed to be taken aback by the suddenly wild tone. “You’d better be, private.” He them motioned forward with his arm, and they rushed over the ridge, behind the rocks, taking potshots at the oncoming troops. After a few returned shots, Patrick took aim again and spoke to Keats. “I want you to sneak ‘round the side there, get over to Sarge and let him know I’m here.”

Keats’s heart sank. “You gonna be okay?’

“Hell, boy, I’m gonna be fine.” He grinned. “Go take off.”

Patrick pulled the trigger, got a few more shots off, then laid flat against the. Meanwhile, Keats ran, feet beating the ground again, legs straining, one unrepeatable word running through his head.

He would get there, and Sarge would be ready, and then Pat would be okay. He’d run faster and quieter than he ever had before—silent as the night, ready as the wind. He’d get there. It would be okay.

He stumbled, but he was quiet. He ran, and he wasn’t tired. The stones skidded beneath his feet, but he repeated the mantra, over and over again, not really sure what it meant:

It'll be okay. . .