Free Tomorrow, the Killing by Daniel Polansky Page A

headed inside.
    Soldiering is not a profession that lends itself toward the glorification of violence, nor of those who practice it. The flux kills more men in an hour than the most skilled warrior could account for in the entirety of his bloody existence, and no amount of bravery or strength is proof against a stray artillery shot. Afterward, trying to impress a girl in a tavern, you might spin a yarn about some squadmate who could down a dozen Dren single-handed, might even say that squadmate was you. But at the time, while it mattered, you knew all that was nonsense. One sword doesn’t swing the outcome of a battle – there were too damn many of us for any particular individual to play much import. A man was either solid – which was to say if he was next in line when you went over the top, you didn’t check to make sure he followed – or he wasn’t, in which case you hoped he’d die soon and leave the rest of the squad his rations. Anything beyond that was fodder for the broadsheets back home.
    Even so, Pretories had acquired a reputation not simply for being a solid man, but an excellent one. I could remember Roland waxing poetic as to the number of times his life had been saved by the uncanny ability of his second-in-command that he feared for nothing so long as Joachim Pretories stood behind him. But then, Roland had said a lot of things.
    Credit due, Joachim had kept himself together, a trim forty, the touch of gray in his hair offering an appropriate note of distinction. Of course that didn’t mean the core hadn’t rotted. Ten years playing politics is like five spent smoking wyrm, and though the grip he held out to me was attached to a sizable bicep, he had the smile of a man who grinned for a living.
    ‘Lieutenant, good to see you again,’ he said, walking me to his desk. ‘Would you like some whiskey?’
    ‘I’ve recently turned teetotal.’
    ‘Water?’
    ‘I’ve sworn that off as well.’
    He took a seat across from me and poured a few fingers of liquor into his own glass. ‘Hroudland said you weren’t happy to have the boys round your place.’
    ‘But you called me anyway. Guess that makes you a real glutton for punishment.’
    ‘I’ve been called worse.’
    ‘I’m sure that hurt your feelings. What is it you want me for, Colonel?’
    ‘Commander,’ he corrected.
    ‘I didn’t realize the Crown promoted decommissioned soldiers.’
    ‘I’m the Supreme Commander of the Great War Veterans’ Association, by the will of my brother soldiers.’
    ‘I voted myself Emperor of Miradin, but ain’t no one sending me any rents.’
    ‘I’m having trouble figuring where this animosity comes from – I hadn’t thought I’d done you any particular harm.’
    ‘The world has been cruel to me, Joachim – I take it out on whomever I can.’
    He backed off my abuse with a laugh, more evidence he’d turned politician. The man I’d known would have dropped me over half of what I’d offered. Or tried to. ‘I’d hoped we could keep this conversation civil, but as it seems you’re too busy for simple courtesy, I’ll get right to the meat of it.’ He poured whiskey through a forced grin, then set the glass back down on the table. ‘Rhaine Montgomery,’ he said.
    Cold fingers ran up the base of my back, but they didn’t show on my face. ‘You’ll need to add a verb for that to count as a full sentence.’
    ‘I’m told she’s in Low Town.’
    ‘Were you?’
    ‘And I’m told you’re looking for her.’
    ‘You’re well informed.’
    ‘Look, Lieutenant, there’s no reason for you to play coy. I know that the general asked you to try and find his daughter and persuade her to come home. I know this because he told me. He told me because we’ve known each other most of my life, because his son was the closest friend I’ve ever had and the best man there ever was. We all want the same thing here.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Rhaine out of Low Town. Back home, in Kor’s Heights. Safe and