Limbo 56 - Mike Morris (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

his unappreciated efforts as Governor. He had, however, picked up a few skills during his stint as leader of one of the least attractive of the many Limbos. “Sergeant,” he said. “First, this is an English-speaking, independent territory, and I am the legal representative of that territory. I may seem unimpressive to you, but, as you well know, we are in a war, and, in addition to my administrative duties, I voluntarily work at the local foundry which produces weapons for our boys in – khaki.” Tridents, he thought, could, at a pinch be classified as weapons. He stared at the sergeant, avoiding looking at the man’s mutilated neck. “You don’t seem to know where you are, and I attribute that to your experiences on the battlefield. Believe me,” he said sincerely,” I appreciate all that you men have been through to keep us all safe.” He paused. “Now, I need to see your commander. I know this area better than anyone, and I have important information for him.”

The sergeant regarded the thin man, noting the absence of weapons, eyes sliding over the knife embedded in his side. “Yes sir,” he said. “Corporal,” he croaked, “Take this man to General Scott’s tent. Stay close to him.”

A man with a hole in his side stepped up. “Follow me,” he said, disappearing into a crowd of soldiers. They marched through the camp of dead soldiers whose wounds would not heal as long as they believed that they still lived. The soldiers were carrying out their tasks with dull, uncomprehending misery, a cook preparing food that would not sustain the dead bodies, a medic, winding a bandage aver a gaping head wound, corpses writing letters that would never be delivered.

The General’s tent was slightly larger than the others were. Outside, a one-armed aide was polishing high leather boots. The corporal saluted and the aide disappeared inside. Arthur heard the mutter of voices, and a spruce spare man came out to meet him. General Scott was neat and freshly shaved, and appeared to bear no marks of injury, apart from a small piece of tape over one eyebrow. His small neat moustache twitched as he took in Arthur’s appearance. He wore his military cap pushed up on his forehead.

“I’m told you can give us information,” he said crisply. “I’m sorry I can’t spare a lot of time, but if necessary, one of my colonels can deal with you.”

“No,” Arthur said firmly. “I must talk to you.” The General scratched his forehead irritably, uncovering a small hole. His cap must be covering a much larger exit wound in the back of his head. “You don’t understand what’s going on.” Arthur told him. It was the wrong approach.

“No, sir, you don’t understand that we are a fighting force, an army that is battling for your freedom from the Hun, and for the freedom of your country.” He looked at Arthur and a small trickle of blood ran down his forehead. Irritably, he wiped it away. “I am responsible for some 5000 men,” he said. “They have been through Hell to defend you and your people.” He drew himself up and glared at the Governor. “You and your people,” he said, “will be required to offer every assistance that I require.” He glared at Arthur. “My men are my first priority, and you will furnish their needs.” He paused again, squinting at the thin man. “I have sent scouts out into the immediate area, and they report that there are many, I repeat many able-bodied men here, who should be in uniform, fighting for their country.”

“Wait,” Arthur broke in, “these men work in the foundry.”

“So you said,” the General interrupted. “And I need to see what your foundry is manufacturing, and for whom.”

Arthur rubbed his eyes. “Listen here, General,” he said. “I have a quota to keep up.”

“Corporal,” the General bawled. “Get over here with four more men, and escort this civilian off the base.”

“You can’t,” Arthur began again, but two large, very battered soldiers had him by the arms. To maintain dignity he stopped struggling and allowed the soldiers to march him quickly to the edge of camp, where the little man was waiting for him.

“Give them a good telling to?” he asked sarcastically. “Are ye sending them back where they came from?”

“Yes,” I’m sending them back, Arthur snapped. “Now shut up and let me think.” He thought for the rest of the day, and most of the night and by the following afternoon had come to several worrying conclusions.

One: Several thousand heavily armed, deluded soldiers were camped inside his Limbo, outnumbering the ordinary citizens. Two: Even contained in the valley, they were a disruptive force. Several of his workers had gone AWOL to watch the soldiers’ antics. Three: Apparently, the soldiers were actively recruiting. A couple of his workers had turned in their overalls, saying that they had joined the army. His subjects were showing remarkably little loyalty.

“What else can go wrong,” he muttered.

“Yo’m wanted outside.”

“What,” he asked the soot-blackened ironworker.

“Yo’m wanted outside,” the man explained patiently. “Them soldiers. There’s about fifty of em with machine guns, askin’ for you.”

Arthur groaned and made for the door. Outside, in the rain, the soldiers waited patiently, guns at the ready. A grim lieutenant with one arm drew himself to attention. “Do I have permission to enter, Sir?”

“I’m afraid I can’t have your soldiers disrupting the work of the factory, lieutenant,” Arthur told him.

“Then I have to insist,” the lieutenant said, and the soldiers shuffled uneasily.

Arthur stepped aside and they trooped in. Blinking in the gloom, squinting when the fires of the furnace shot forth, the lieutenant breathed the soot filled air. “Smells a bit like Wipers,” he said. “That was where, was where...”

“You were killed,” Arthur told him gently.

“Nonsense.” The lieutenant snapped. “You,” he started deploying his men. “Cover the exits, two to each exit,” he said directing them. Sergeant Bailey, you come with me, Sergeant Jones, take a section and start questioning the workers.”

“You can’t do that,” Arthur protested.

“We can and will,” the lieutenant said grimly. “I don’t think you realize the position that you are in. If we find,” he continued, “that you are not engaged in genuine war work, and if, in fact you are shielding these able-bodied men from performing active military service, you will face a military trial, with very serious potential consequences.”

Arthur thought about the cheap haloes that were currently being unloaded from the conveyor belt, and the metal horn-muffs, the harp frames, the tridents. “Let me show you our output of tridents,” he said desperately to the lieutenant.

“Tridents?” the lieutenant sounded shocked.

“It’s a tradition in these parts,” Arthur babbled. “Locally, there’s great skill in using a trident. We have families here who have ten generations experience making and using tridents.”

“I suppose you manufacture little trainee tridents for the children to practice with,” the lieutenant remarked sarcastically. He wandered over to a trident bin and fished one out. A drunken halo circled one of the tines. He shook it off in disgust and flung the trident at the bin. It bounced off harmlessly, clanging on to the soot-encrusted floor. “Pretty useful against a tank,” he remarked. “Is this all that the foundry produces,” he asked.

“Well, there’s horn, er little metal cones,” Arthur muttered. “Soldiers use them to drink out of; they take up less room than cups.”

The lieutenant was looking around in frank amazement, now. “Is this all you make here?” he asked unbelievingly.

“We have special orders that we fulfill,” Arthur answered. “I had an order for some silver cutlery from, er… Skytown. We also make thin metal sheets that are turned into harp strings, and horns, we get occasional orders for horns. We produce machinery, sometimes, for other Limb…. Places. Look here,” he continued. “I’ve been trying to tell your General that he is not where he thinks he is.”

The lieutenant focused a cold stare on the Governor. “I tried to tell him that you’re all dead,” Arthur finished weakly. “I’m dead too. Look,” he said desperately, “see this; see this knife sticking between my ribs.”

The lieutenant was no longer listening. “Are you trying to convince me that you’re insane?” he asked. “We have to take this place over, and convert your processes to production of armaments.” He strode over to one of the line workers. “Do you enjoy your work,” he bellowed over the clamor of the machinery.

“You must be mad,” the man said, not glancing up. “In this place?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to be making guns and bombs?” the lieutenant asked.

“Anything for a change,” the worker said, ignoring Arthur’s frantic signals.

“What about the Army?” the lieutenant asked cunningly. “That would be a change.”

“Yeah, maybe,” the man said, wiping soot from his overalls. He brightened. “Are you going back through the tunnel?”

“Back to the real war,” the soldier said.

“The real world,” the worker said, misunderstanding. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Finally the soldiers were done. The lieutenant looked stonily at Arthur. “I’ll give my report to the General,” he said. “He’ll know what to do with you.”

They left, with several foundry workers following. “Come back, I need you,” Arthur called to his workers, but they ignored him. A couple of them were fencing clumsily with tridents, and several were skimming haloes at each other. Outside, the soldiers joined their companions, formed ranks, and marched away, an army of Pied Pipers followed by a ragged crowd of Arthur’s workers.

“This is serious,” Arthur told his foremen a little later. “They’re not only signing up my workers, they’re going to try me as a draft-dodger and war profiteer.” He looked around. “We have to come up with a plan to fix this.” He looked around for a few moments. “If we don’t come up with a plan,” he said in a slightly louder voice, “this Limbo will fail to meet its quota, and the Angels will be angry.” He looked around again and said clearly, “the Angels will decide to do something about us.” He smiled grimly. “But we all know how slow the Angels are. They’ll mutter and debate while down in Hell…”

“The Devils will be trying us for a breach of contract,” one of his foremen broke in.

“And we’ll all end up down there,” Arthur finished for him.

“We have to do something – Make a plan – Tell them they’re dead…” they all started talking at once.

“Why don’t we just go and get our workers?” Shadrach Jones said loudly, his face contorted into a mask that might have frightened a charging tiger. Shadrach was Arthur’s best worker. He looked like Attila the Hun might look on a bad day, and he was the biggest man in Limbo. Despite this, Arthur had never known him to be anything but a model citizen, and the Governor often wondered what unlucky chance had brought the man to this miserable place.

“They have guns,” Arthur pointed out. “They’re soldiers, and they will use them.”

“So what,” Shadrach answered him. “We’re already undead; they can’t kill us.”

“Do you remember,” Arthur said grimly, “that time a couple of years back when a new man splashed molten steel on your boot. You’re a strong man, but you were off your feet for a week before the toes grew back.” He shook his head. “Those machine guns can cut a man in two.” He pounded the worn desk