Part 18 (1/2)

”Don't mind a'tall, you be welcome. A'right den, you got yore cane and done munched some.

You feel up t'walkin' now?”

”Yes, sir ... Samuel.”

”Well, git on up den, Chancy.”

”How far?”

”As far as we needs t'go, ah reckon. You'll know it when you sees it.” Chancy kept himself from asking anything else until the cane field gave way to peach orchards that lined both sides of the road and he saw the children. There must have been hundreds . . . thousands upon thousands of them playing beneath the soft rain of pink and white blossoms.

A part of him understood that children died, that death was as indiscriminate of the young as it was the old, but until he saw them-all of them-he'd never thought about it, never let himself think about it. Or about how many of the children laughing and running through the fragrant sweet air he had personally sent here.

War was war and the enemy was whoever you were told it was Whoever you were told to fight. Blindly and without question, like the good soldier you are.

Were.

The sudden pain he felt had nothing to do with the projectile that killed him.

”Dat a'right, Chancy,” Samuel said, nodding to a group of children- yellow, brown, white-who'd noticed them standing there and shouted greetings. ”It be hard t'see dem so young, but you gotta know dey be happy here. Some o' 'em even happier den when dey was breathin'. You keep dat in mind and you be fine.”

One of the children who'd shouted, a boy of about six or seven with golden skin and hair and eyes the color of starless s.p.a.ce, ran up to them and hugged Chancy around the waist. His touch changed the orchard into a paradise where peac.o.c.ks strutted in the shadows of towering minarets. Nirvana.

Another little boy pushed the first away and brought Chancy endless rolling plains, thick with grazing buffalo and deer. The air was warm and scented with sage and sweet-gra.s.s, and high overhead an eagle rode a thermal to the Land of the Sky People.

He became the new game. Children nocked around him like hungry little birds, sharing glimpses of their afterworlds with him. One after another the images came and went. The gold-paved streets his grandfather had told him about became a cloud-field where incandescentbeings with dove wings flew; then s.h.i.+fted to a rainbow bridge that glittered across an empty sky to a cool, blue water pool beneath a red-stone arch where a king in a golden throne slept in the Dream Time and thought of giant sharks and palm trees swaying gently in the- . . . so beautiful. . .

”Please . . . stop,” Chancy said to the little girl dancing while the feathered serpents flew rings around the sun. ”Samuel, please make them stop. It's too much. I can't-”

”Dat be all now, chillins, you all best git back t'yore playin'. We needs t'be up t'da front.”

Samuel's quiet orchard returned the moment the children stopped touching him.

”You are taking him to the battle? ” a pale boy in a loose-fitting robe asked. ”Oh, Samuel, may I come, too? I am almost a man.”

”Ah cin see dat, Eliyahu, but iffen you come who be watchin' over da youngens? No, you best t'stay . . . but ah'll tell yore pappy 'bout how you asked. He be right proud, ah bet. An dat goes for all o' you, too. Yore pappys 'n' mammys be so proud knowin' yore thinkin' o' 'em. Dey be back right soon now ah think, so y'all jist do what comes nat'ral. But don't you go eatin' up all m'peaches now, you hear. Ahs got me a han-kerin' t'bake up some cobbler when ahs git back.”

Only a few children, who shared Samuel's vision of Heaven, laughed out loud before scampering away. The rest followed more slowly, with only nods to show they accepted being dismissed.

Chancy watched them resume the games that his and Samuel's presence had disrupted; each child safe within their heavenly visions but not alone. Never alone.

He would have stayed right there watching them, while the petals drifted down around him, if Samuel hadn't tugged on his sleeve.

”Come along now, Chancy ... da chillins be a'right and we needs t'git on.”

”To the battle?”

Samuel reached up and picked a golden peach from the tree, gently rubbing the fuzz off between his leathery palms before handing it to Chancy.

”You jist take a bite o' dat, boy. Betcha ain't tasted nothin' like it in a month o' Sundays go t'meetin'. Goan, eat it now whilst you got da chance.” Samuel laughed as he turned and headed up the dirt road. ”Yesshur, ol' Chancy gots t'have da chance t'eats dat peach. Yesshur. Eat dat ol' peach, Chancy, while you gots da chance. Hee-hee, ah do makes m'self laugh.”

Chancy felt his mouth water as he looked at the peach. Its pinkish-yellow skin glistened with dew drops. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real piece of unprocessed fruit, let alone a peach freshly picked from a tree . . . but, then again, he couldn't really remember what being alive felt like.

”Samuel?”

But when he looked up, Samuel was little more than a moving shadow far up the road. It was amazing how fast the old man could walk.

Tossing the peach to a little girl with copper hair and bright green eyes, Chancy adjusted the straps on his combat vest and fell into the prescribed steady jog designed to eat up miles at the minimum expense of physical endurance. Not that he had to worry about that now.

The orchard stretched on for miles, and the sound of children accompanied him every step of the way. Until he reached Samuel's side.

”Where are we?” Chancy asked in a whisper. ”Whose place is this?” Samuel turned towardhim and licked his lips. A cold star-field surrounded them, as stark and barren as the glistening volcanic outcrop on which they were standing. The star patterns looked vaguely familiar, but Chancy couldn't remember from where.

”Ain't no one's in particular,” Samuel said, ”and ev'rybody's in general, ah guess. But dis be da place we's goan to.” ”This is where the ... battle is?”

”Yep, right over dat ways a mite.” Samuel pointed to a spot on the desolate horizon and he saw it-the faint red glow leaching into the darkness between the stars. ”You jist keep walkin'

da way you been. You got folks waitin' for you.”

Chancy nodded and readjusted his armor, the rush of adrenaline p.r.i.c.king the flesh at the back of his neck. He was a soldier, and this was what he'd been trained to do.

”You coming?” he asked the old man.

”Oh, ahs be along directly. Jist don't wanna spoil yore welcomin' s'all. Goan on now, boy, it ain't far now . . . dey be waitin' for you.”

Chancy didn't ask who was waiting or how far he'd have to go, he just went. . . like the good soldier that he was. But even if he had asked, Chancy soon realized it wouldn't have made much difference, at least to the question of distance. There were no prominent features on the brittle landscape he could gauge a visual against, no way of telling how far he'd already gone ... no real proof that he was even moving forward except for the ever-increasing size of the glow on the horizon.

He heard the fighting before he saw it. And saw only the soldier standing between him and the battlefield before he saw the weapon aimed at his belly.

”Halt!” The voice was m.u.f.fled behind the combat helmet. ”Identify yourself.”

”Chancy, Robert F. Private/First Cla.s.s.”

”Advance, Private.” The voice said. ”Ready for some action?”

”Sir,” Chancy yelled when he got close enough to see the rank etched into the chest armor.

”Yes, sir. Always ready, sir.”

The captain nodded and pushed back the helmet's visor. She was a beautiful woman despite the broken shaft of an arrow sticking out of her right eye socket.

”Good, I like a man who's always ready. You carrying?”

Chancy looked down and saw the weapon hanging loose and comfortable in his hand. Just like it was supposed to be. Swinging it up toward the visor opening on his own helmet, he twisted the pulse rifle one-quarter turn counterclockwise so the officer could see that the charge lights were Four-for-Four, fully loaded and ready for bear.

”Sir, yes, sir.” He nodded in appreciation when she signaled him to stand down, and he nodded toward the arrow. ”You need some help with that?”