Stepping down from the train, Colonel Andrew Lawrence Keane looked about with an approving smile. "We've come a long way, colonel." Andrew looked over his shoulder and grinned at Hans Schuder, his old sergeant major with the 35th Maine and commander of the armies of the Republic of Rus.
That we have, Hans, that we indeed have." Just how far have we come? he wondered.
He found that his thoughts turned back to earth less frequently of late. If given the choice now of returning, he knew what the answer would be for himself, and that thought brought him a deep sense of satisfaction. It had been nearly a year and a half since victory over the Tugars---and what a world of change they had wrought since then! And thank God above all else there had been peace, the first he had really known in over five years.
Stepping back from the train, Andrew shaded his eyes from the red glare of the sun and looked back westward. Though he had never been out west, he imagined that this must be how it looked. The prairie grass was nearly waist-high, shifting and flowing like waves upon the sea as the warm summer breeze flowed across the endless steppe.
The air was awash with the scent of wildflowers, which slotted the rolling hills with exuberant splashes of lavender, yellow and brilliant reds. The warm breeze rippling past him was so fresh and pure that he felt that if there had ever been a Garden of Eden, this is what it must have been like.
Turning to look northward, he could see the rising fir-clad hills a dozen miles away, the southern edge of the great woods which he imagined must march off for thousands of miles to a mysterious land he knew he would never see. Chuck Ferguson, his ever-inventive engineer, had calculated several months back that the world they were on was nearly the same size as earth, some twenty-two thousand miles around. It had been an ingenious experiment. Using one of the new accurate clocks that they had recently started to turn out, he had measured the position of the noonday sun back in Suzdal, and with another clock set to the first one his assistant had measured the angle at precisely the same time here nearly five hundred miles east. Ferguson claimed he had learned the trick from an account of Eratosthenes, an ancient Greek who had done the same thing two thousand years ago.
But there was still the world straight ahead, and someday, maybe twenty years hence, the train line they were building would completely encircle the world. Andrew looked appraisingly at the steam engine Malady before him. It was named after yet another hero of the Tugar war. No finer tribute, he thought wistfully, looking at the Medal of Honor painted beneath the dead engineer's name.
If only Malady were here to appreciate all of this, Andrew thought wistfully. Malady and the two hundred other boys from the 35th Maine and 44th New York battery, and after all, most of them had only been boys, who had given their lives in the war to make Rus free from the Tugar scourge.
The engine was the best one built so far, on the larger three-and-a-half-foot gauge which they had decided would be the standard size for the rail line until the current frenzy of emergency development had passed. It was still smaller than the wider gauges back on earth, but there had to be a trade-off, given the limited resources available as of yet, and the need to have a lighter rail to conserve on iron.
How many tens of thousands of tons have we gone through so far on this insanely wonderful project? he wondered as he looked back westward to where the rails finally vanished on the far horizon. He knew if he shot the question to John Mina, his chief of industry, the man could give him the figures to the nearest pound. Smiling, he looked up to see Mina stepping down from the train. The stress of the war was long gone, and the colonel, being recently married to a cousin of Kal's, was already showing some additional weight from his wife's typical Rus cooking.
The car Mina was stepping down from reflected the usual superb woodworking skills of the Rus, unlike the slapdash flatcars and hoppers of military necessity. With the Suzdalian penchant for woodcarving not a single square inch of the car was left plain. This particular one was adorned with a panoramic scene of the Great Tugar War, as it was now called, showing the famed charge of the 35th Maine across the great square in the center of Suzdal at the climax of the battle. Andrew looked at the car with a touch of embarrassment, for at the head of the charge was a perfect likeness of himself, left sleeve empty, sword raised in right hand, the American flag behind him. Tugars, eyes wide with terror, were fleeing from his wrath; his own visage was grim, commanding. Is that how I looked? he wondered, for all he could recall of it now was the terrible sense of doom, and fear that all was lost.
It seemed like a different world, now that the constant nightmare dread no longer hung over him like a veil. A smile creased Andrew's features as he stepped back from the car and looked up.
Atop the car, at the front end, were four carved and painted figures, three of them Union soldiers, one holding ihe American flag, the other two the standards of the 35th Maine Volunteer Infantry and the 44th New York Light Artillery, while the fourth figure in the middle of the group, depicted in the plain white tunic and crosshatched leggings of Rus infantry, held aloft the flag of the Rus Republic, a blue standard with a circle of ten white stars in the middle representing the ten cities of the Rus.
The other cars of the train showed various Rus regiments in action, the doomed stand of the 5th Suzdal and the fourth Nov-rod battery at the pass, the 1st Suzdal holding the ford, or the gallant action of the 17th Suzdal holding the southeast bastion to the last man. The next-to-the-last car on the train was one of his favorites, showing Vincent Hawthorne, crashed balloon behind him, blowing up the Vina Dam, the action which had saved all of them when the flood wiped out the Tugar host.
The very last car was adorned with a scene that reminded Andrew of Stuart's famous painting of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the carving depicting the formal signing of the Constitution of the Republic of Rus. The car was now the presidential carriage, and Andrew looked back at it and smiled, wondering how its most illustrious passenger was faring after the bouncing, swaying ride.
"Five hundred and eleven miles down, only twenty-one thousand and a half to go," Hans said, as if to himself, as he came up alongside Andrew.
"The first five hundred are more than enough for me, sergeant."
Andrew looked up to see Emil Weiss, the regimental surgeon, stepping down from the train, dusting himself off, with General Pat O'Donald, artillery commander of the old 44th New York, at his side. O'Donald, his red-bearded face aglow, staggered slightly, and it was obvious it was not from the effect of the swaying train ride.
"Our dear president sure has a bug under him about this Manifest Destiny and transcontinental rail project," Emil said with a laugh. "That's all he wanted to talk about for most of the day."
"How is our dear president?" Andrew said shaking his head.
"Just carsick, as usual. Give him a couple of minutes more and he should be ready."
"It was a bit rough at that," Hans mumbled, and looking over, Andrew could see that the sergeant was still a bit green around the gills, as he knew he was as well.
Ferguson had been at the throttle since they had pulled out of Suzdal the night before, and he had kept the engine wide open, pulling along at a good forty miles an hour, stopping only for water and wood. Though the new passenger cars had springs, the ride had been a jostling, bouncing affair. Andrew stepped back from the train as a vent of steam hissed out and looked at it appraisingly.
In the spring after the war, the new Senate had voted to approve the transcontinental rail project, something which all the men associated with the iron mill had lobbied hard for. Reconstruction after the devastation of the Tugar war had, of course, come first, and it hadn't been till early summer that the mills, wiped out when the dam was blown, had been replaced and expanded so that a surplus of metal could be allocated beyond the needs of replacing lost tools, military equipment, and farm machinery.
There had been a nearly overwhelming amount of work associated with rebuilding Suzdal and the entire realm of the
Rus, along with the ordering of a new republic. But Andrew could see that the rail line had helped to create a dream of exploration, trade, and expansion. Every society needed a frontier, Andrew realized, and though the rail line was consuming the labor of tens of thousands, the long-term benefits would be incalculable.
Besides that, there was above all else the military necessity as well. The population of Rus had been cut in half by the war and smallpox. If the southern hordes should ever turn their attention northward, alliances would be essential for survival.
"Colonel Keane, I wish to report that all is in order, sir."
Smiling, Andrew turned about to face Vincent Hawthorne, now a general in command of a brigade and also ambassador to their new ally.
The slight youngster—and Keane still could not help but see him that way—stood rigidly at attention, dressed in a plain white belted tunic, adorned with the shoulder stars of a Suzdalian general, his staff drawn up stiffly behind him. As one, Vincent and his staff saluted.
Andrew, drawing himself to attention, saluted in reply.
"Stand at ease, general," and he warmly grabbed Vincent's hand.
Not even twenty-one, Andrew thought, and already a holder of the Suzdalian Medal of Honor for saving all their hides by blowing the dam in the final battle of the war. He could see by gazing into the young man's eyes that the anguish had softened somewhat of late. His Quaker upbringing had created a terrible inner struggle over the slaughter he had wrought. There had been a period of several months when he had feared that Vincent would drift away into some inner darkness. Perhaps it was the birth of the twins that had finally pulled him back, giving to him a sense that without his sacrifice the new life he had helped to create would have never been born.
It was strange, Andrew realized, but that inner anguish was leaving him as well. Three years of war against the Confederacy at home and then another hard brutal war here on Valdennia had driven him near to the edge as well. There were still nights when the demon would return. It was no longer about his brother Johnnie—no, that had been laid to rest at last. Now it was that terrible moment when the Tugars were swarming over the wall, and the city was in
flames, the moment when he knew that they would lose and worse yet, that Kathleen would be lost as well at the very moment when their love was finally realized. It was still there, but the year and a half of peace had finally started to heal his soul at last.
"Your wife, sir, is she well?" Vincent asked eagerly, and a round of chuckles rose up from the group. Nervously, Andrew looked about.
"I think the father-to-be is having more difficult time than the mother," Emil growled.
"It's nothing, sir," Vincent replied. "You'll get used to it. The first one's always the toughest."
"Ah, the veteran speaks," 0'Donald retorted with a grin. "Good God, son, can't you give your poor wife a rest? Twins, no less, the second time around."
Vincent visibly blushed.
"Kathleen's fine, Vincent, and asked for you. Your Tanya is taking good care of her. She send her love as well and wanted me to tell you that young Andrew keeps asking for you."
Vincent looked about proudly at the mention of his son. "Everything in order, Vincent?" The delegation is ready, sir."
"Well, all we need is our president and we can get this show on the road," O'Donald growled. "Just where the hell is that man, anyhow?"
"Remember he is our president." Andrew replied evenly, with the slightest tone of reproach in his voice.
"President, is it, and a good thrashing it was I gave 'im one night, just before the war, and now himself that I gave the black eye to is the chief."
Startled, Andrew looked over at his slightly drunk artilleryman.
"Ah, it was nothing," 0'Donald said. "Just a little argument about a gambling debt."
"And if I heard it correctly," Emil interjected, "you came out of it with a lump on your head the size of an apple."
O'Donald rubbed his scalp and smiled.
"Hit me from behind, he did, with a chair leg."
"Like hell I did—it was my good drinking mug, and your thick skull broke it!"
"Gentlemen, attention!" Andrew growled.
Looking up at the train, Andrew snapped off a salute.
Kalencka, President Kal as everyone called him with affection, stood on the car platform looking down at them with an open grin, though it was evident that he was still a hit unsteady from the long train ride.
Andrew had difficulty restraining a smile at Kal's appearance. The near-mythical standing of Abraham Lincoln with the men from the Union Army had been conveyed to the Rus with endless anecdotes about the beloved president's wisdom, compassion, and style that bespoke an understanding of the common people from which he came. Kal stood before the group sporting the famed chin whiskers of Lincoln, cut back from the traditional flowing beard of the Rus. He had even adopted the rumpled black coat, pants, white shirt, and stovepipe hat, which Andrew suspected would forever be fixed now in the minds of the Rus as the proper uniform of a president. It was a somewhat ludicrous sight on Kal's rotund five-and-a-half-foot form, yet Andrew could not help but feel that if the real Abe should somehow ever cross to this strange world, he and Kal would easily sit down together and trade witticisms far into the night.
Andrew found his thoughts drifting to the day Lincoln had stood by his hospital bed and chatted so pleasantly, and with such heartfelt concern, after presenting him with the Medal of Honor for his action at Gettysburg. Absentmind-edly, Andrew touched his empty left sleeve, the ever-present reminder of that day at Gettysburg, as he looked up at Kal, whose own right sleeve was empty as well.
The impression of Lincoln had settled on Kal during the presidential campaign against Andrew the previous summer. Andrew knew the race was a foregone conclusion; he had run upon the insistence of his men, but realized from the beginning that he did not stand a ghost of a chance against the favorite-son candidate of Suzdal. If anything, his effort was more a civics lessor* in the multiparty system for the newly freed Rus than any serious bid for a job he did not want to have. He had even cherished a hope, a foolish one he knew, that he could retire and perhaps take the position of president of the small college the men had set up to teach engineering, agriculture, medicine, and metallurgy. Kal had insisted that he serve as vice-president and also wear the hat of secretary of war. The cabinet had been filled out with several other Maine men-—Bill Webster, the banker, was in charge of the treasury, Emil directed the department of
medicine and public health, Bob Fletcher, who had built the first grain mill, was now in charge of agriculture, and Mina held the post of secretary of industry.
"Stand at ease, my friends," Kal whispered self-consciously | as he stepped from the train. "You know I can't stand all this foolish ceremony."
Even as he spoke, the assembled band raggedly started into a dissonant version of "Hail to the Chief," yet another import from the world left behind. The 5th Suzdal, Haw-horne's Guards, as they were now affectionately known in spite of all his protests, arrayed in double rank behind Vincent, snapped to attention with the first note, their tattered battle standard dipping to the ground, while the new emblem of the Republic of Rus was held straight aloft.
"We must impress the others, Mr. President," Andrew j whispered, leaning over to speak to Kal as he stepped off j the train. "They put a lot of stock in such things." I
Kal nodded and stood self-consciously as the last notes of the piece drifted away. He was about to step forward when the band struck up "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," and with a bit of a self-conscious grin he came back to attention for the new national anthem.
The music finished, Kal relaxed and, extending his left hand, stepped forward to embrace Vincent, kissing him loudly on either cheek. Vincent, unable to relax, accepted the embrace woodenly.
"Come now, can't my own son-in-law give his father an embrace?"
"Father," Vincent whispered, "this is a diplomatic ceremony."
"I know, I know, and the mouse must look like a lion," Kal replied with a chuckle,
"Mr. President, the boy's right, you know," Andrew whispered. "Our friends on the other side are somewhat more stoic than we are."
"All right, then," Kal said, his features fixed with mock seriousness, "let's get started then."
Vincent stepped back and with a flourish pulled out his sword.
"Regiment, present arms."
As one the battle-hardened troops snapped their muskets up.
"This way, Mr. President," Vincent announced, and he started to walk down the hundred-yard front of line, with his father-in-law by his side, while Andrew and the rest of the delegation fell in behind him.
Kal scanned the regiment and nodded, the men in the ranks grinning back at him.
"Ah, Alexi Andreovich, your wife sends her greetings," Kal called out, stopping before a gray-bearded soldier.
"Did she?" Alexi asked incredulously, and a chuckle came up from the ranks. Vincent, standing behind Kal, gave a look of cold anger, and the laughter instantly died.
"She made me promise to tell you you're forgiven, but if she ever sees you with Tetyana again, she'll cut both your hearts out."
The men broke into laughter, unable to contain themselves. Kal drew closer and in a fatherly manner put his hand on Alexi's shoulder.
"She's a good wife and mother to your children, Alexi;" Kal whispered. "You and I both know that. By rights she should lock her door to you forever. When you get home, confess your sins to Father Casmar, make peace with her, and then light a candle to Kesus for forgiveness. Promise me that, my old friend—I want to see peace in your family." Alexi reddened, dropping his head in shame. "That's a good fellow. I didn't want to embarrass you here, but you needed to learn this. Forgive me that."
"There is nothing to forgive," Alexi whispered.
"Good then," Kal said gently, drawing back, as the men who had heard the exchange nodded to each other with approval and affection for their old friend who had not become like a haughty boyar.
Andrew smiled inwardly. It might not have fit the occasion, but it was by such things that Kal kept his touch with the people he now served.
"Shall we continue?" Vincent asked stiffly.
"Of course, son, we mustn't keep them waiting."
Kal continued down the regimental line, past the still-steaming engine. Fifty yards ahead of the engine the track came to a stop, the eastern edge of the MFL&S railroad, the end of the line marked by the fflag of Rus. Just on the other side the roadbed continued, crossing a high trestle bridge five hundred feet long across the Sangros River, which marked the western edge of cultivated land under the Roum. Looking across the river, Andrew could see the low walls of the border town and the irrigated fields beyond, cut
by the twin lines of the paved Appia Way and the roadbed of the railroad beside it, cutting through the low rolling hills on a southeasterly line to the capital city seventy miles away.
The area on the west side of the river was covered with the vast array of equipment marking the rail head of an advancing line—piles of fresh-cut stringers and bridging timbers still oozing tar, stacks of gleaming rails three days old out of the foundry back in Rus, barrels of spikes, footers to secure the rails, sidings filled with dormitory and kitchen cars, crane cars, flatcars, and even one of the new steam land locomotives used for moving earth. Swarming over the cars, jostling for the best view of the ceremony, were the three thousand men of the road gang, happy for this brief respite from the back-breaking round-the-clock schedule.
Coming up1 to the end of the track, the group came to a halt before the flag of Rus. A small pavilion was laid out before the collors, a simple rough-hewn table in the middle, and behind it there was another standard, this one a silver pole surmounted by a golden eagle with wings extended.
From across the bridge a flourish of drums sounded, counterpointeid by a high clarion cry of trumpets.
With steady measured step, a column of men started across the bridge and Andrew felt a cold thrill at the sight of them, as if he had somehow crossed through time to gaze at another age..
The first consul of Roum marched at the head of the column, his silver breastplate shining in the morning sun, his purple cape fluttering in the breeze. Behind him came two dozen toga-clad men bearing the traditional bundles of fasces, the mark <of the consul's rank.
"It looks straight out of the history books," Emil whis- j pered in fascination.
"Got here the same as we did," Andrew replied, "only two thousand years earlier. They kept the same traditions and customs as well."
"Castrated by the Tugars, nevertheless," O'Donald growled.
"They'll learn," Kal said evenly, looking back at O'Donald. "Remember they fought the remnant of the Tugar horde that drifted this way, and held them back."
"And they still have slaves. That Marcus fellow ain't none too pleased with our talk about freedom. They got the same I system the Rus did when we first got here."
"Give 'em time," Andrew said evenly. "Marcus wants trade and an alliance. We can show them a better way." The tone of his voice indicated that the debate was ended.
"It still sticks in my throat," O'Donald snapped in reply, unable to contain himself.
"They need us as much as we might need them," Kal said, looking back at O'Donald. "We still don't know where the Tugars drifted off to, and there are still the other hordes to the south. Our people need allies if we are to survive in this world."
Unable to respond to a logical military answer, O'Donald fell quiet.
The leader of the Roum strode forward, his sharply chiseled features set with an even expression. His eyes were deep-set, nearly hidden by a dark jutting brow and sharp aquiline nose. His bearing was erect, an outward expression of the rigid self-control and regal bearing of a man used to absolute obedience from all who served him. The only mark of emotion was in his gray hawklike eyes, which betrayed open curiosity at Kal's strange garb and appearance.
Behind Marcus the cohort of troops advanced at a steady rhythmic pace, a near mirror image of the 5th Suzdal, which fell in behind Kal in a regimental front by companies.
"Good-looking troops he's got," O'Donald said appraisingly. "I'll give the devil that at least."
"Roman tradition," Andrew replied, trying to contain his inner delight at this formation, which seemed to appear ghostlike out of the lost realm of history. The men were dressed in heavy leather tunics fronted with iron plate, their hronze helmets shining blood-red in the morning sun. Centurions, dressed in red cloaks, marked the pace, barking out commands, knowing they were on parade and ready to show the pride of the Roum off for the strangers who had come out of the west.
The drum cadence ruffled, and as if guided by a single hand the formation stopped before the standards. Behind Andrew, shouted commands echoed down the Suzdalian formation, which now as if in rivalry came to a halt and as one presented muskets in salute.
Vincent with sword drawn looked back at Kal, motioning for him to stay in place. He stepped forward and approached Marcus. Bringing his sword up, he saluted.
"Marcus Licinius Graca, it is my honor to present to you
President Kalencka of the Republic of Rus," he said in Latin.
Andrew smiled at Vincent's fair grasp of Latin, learned at his Quaker school and honed to the needs of his new job. It was one of the reasons he had been appointed ambassador, since besides Andrew and Emil there were only half a dozen other men in the regiment who knew the language at all. The Latin spoken by the Roum was, of course, not the standard textbook version learned out of Caesar's Gallic Wars, it was a far more vulgar form, but across two thousand years the language had changed surprisingly little except for the smattering of Tugar words which seemed to be common to all who lived under the horde.
He had sent the boy out here to provide military command for the work crew, which was also a fully armed brigade ready to fight at a moment's notice. But beyond all those other qualifications, Andrew realized that Vincent was imbued with the highest ideals of the republic, a fact which he wanted Marcus exposed to from one who held little if any guile in his soul. Perhaps guilelessness was not the best trait for an ambassador to have, but it was a risk worth taking in this delicate opening stage of development for Rus's first alliance.
Marcus, his features cold and fixed, eyed Kal appraisingly. The two were a marked contrast in rulers. Kal, obviously of peasant stock, his rotund form draped in a rumpled black suit and topped with the slightly ludicrous stovepipe hat, smiled openly at the Roum patrician, who stood before them like a statue come to life from a distant legendary age.
The two stood in silence for a moment until Kal, breaking the ice, stepped forward, extending his left hand.
Marcus looked at the empty sleeve, and his features lightened even as he took Kal's hand.
In Latin, he said, "Your arm—no one ever told me. It is gone, like Keane's," and as he spoke he looked over at Andrew and smiled.
Andrew and Marcus had met on several occasions, when negotiations for trade and military alliance between the two peoples had first started. Between them a friendship had started to form, the bond of two men who knew command.
"President Kalencka lost his arm defending Suzdal against the Tugars," Andrew interjected.
"Then he is a warrior like you," Marcus replied approvingly, looking at Kal with respect.
"Nothing like being a war hero to impress the people," Kal said openly, sensing the nature of the exchange between Marcus and Andrew.
"It helps," Andrew responded.
"Well, let's get on to the signing then," Kal interjected and with a smile motioned to the table set up on the roadbed.
The diminutive president and the consu...
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