FSF, January-February 2010 Read Free

Yet I struggle to find good reasons to hold onto these instinctive beliefs. A greater-than-mortal master, the Emperor is wise and powerful in a multitude of ways. During these awful years, He has survived ambushes and miserable luck. Worse abuse than illness has rained down on his body and soul, yet hasn't He always come away grinning? But remembering that grin, I try to recall how long it has been since that weary face lit up the world with its joy.
    The past is no guide for the future. Circumstances change, and while history is endless, someday this Emperor will pass. His health is lousy. But just as terrible is my own foolishness, unable to imagine an existence where this man does not stand astride our great nation.
    "Drive this damned boat,” Hawthorne yells.
    Rake turns and pushes at the throttle, the boat's twin engines shivering as they press against the lake water. We accelerate quickly—faster than our pilot intends, no doubt—and the beached skiff feels the yank of the rope and fights the pressure until it has no choice but to turn and follow.
    "Careful with the maps,” Zann snaps at the pilot.
    Rake says nothing. But the skiff almost capsized, and he shudders and shrinks down a little, considering the consequences of that nightmare.
    For some while, we say nothing. Spent and reflective, we are thrilled with our escape but too ashamed to admit it. I watch the land recede. Men are running, making ready in their mad fashions, but faces vanish quickly and then the uniformed bodies are soon lost as well. Nothing remains of the beach but a narrow gray line where water meets land, and moments later the beach too is swallowed.
    The Emperor remains sitting on the tiny deck. Joking, He claims that the heat and vibrations of the engines help the ailing body.
    Hawthorne looks at me, perhaps wondering if I'd like to take my turn caring for our leader.
    I surprise myself, allowing him that grave honor.
    What matters is watching Rake handle the boat's wheel and the long brass throttle, and how he reads the map and both compasses, and his method of aiming at the waves that continue to roll toward us. Boats are simpler than trucks, it seems. But I tell myself that I could master this job well enough, if design or an emergency placed me in his seat.
    Something moves behind me. The general suddenly throws a steel pail into the lake, clinging to the rope and bringing it up full. Half is poured back. The other half is given a shot of detergent—the harsh brand normally used to wash fish scales off raw hands. But his intention is to soak rags and wipe down the Emperor's face and arms and hands, sounding like the father of a very important boy, saying, “Now look up, Sire. Higher, please. I want that neck a little less grimy, Sire."
    Unnoticed by me, the land has vanished. Behind us is nothing but water and the enslaved skiff. I watch the latter for a little while, trying to anticipate its shifting, almost carefree motions. Then a thought suddenly strikes. Or rather, I remember its presence. More than once, this odd matter has brought me out of the deepest sleep, and for hours I have lain awake, helplessly trying to pick apart the conundrum.
    Zann is the perfect audience, and an occasion this ripe will probably never come again.
    Leaning over my seat, trying to speak just loud enough for one man to hear, I ask, “When does this change?"
    "Change?"
    "The war's nature,” I say. “Its plan, its course."
    "Change how?” Zann is a brilliant, perceptive man. A good military mind with twice as many soldiers wouldn't have accomplished the miracles that he has. But what seems obvious to me is a mystery to him. Shaking his head, he admits, “I don't know what you mean, son. What about the war is going to change?"
    I lean closer. Through the throb of the engines, I shout, “When do we stop retreating?"
    He looks baffled.
    Hawthorne stares at both of us. Did he hear what he thinks he heard? He wants to know, but the Emperor has just