Free Field of Mars by Stephen Miller

pair of walking boots over his trousers. It was already getting warm, the mist was rising over the railway sidings and he could see clearly the trees beyond, the open fields extending to the east. The countryside was damaged from the recent movement of troops, even the station had not escaped. A fire had blackened one end of the building and there were holes where bullets had chipped the bricks around the entrance.
    Andrianov fished into his pocket for the key and walked down the train to the first of the goods wagons. When he got to it he broke the Bulgarian military seals, and opened the doors.
    He pushed his foot into a cleat and clambered up. Inside the wagon were two Schneider 122mm field artillery pieces nailed to the floor of the rail car and secured with chains and chocks. Their steel barrels were newly painted field grey. In the shadows at each end of the wagon, turned over with their wheels removed for cartage, were the guns’ caissons. Andrianov checked the serial numbers, stood for a moment in the gloom, touched a finger to the lip of the muzzle of one of the pieces. It was raw metal, painted with thick grease to protect against rust. The finest product of the Putilov plants. The guns had been ordered to reinforce the Bulgarian army; only his money and Count Ivo Smyrba’s willingness to betray his country had diverted them to this tiny shunting yard.
    He turned to exit the wagon and saw a young man standing there. ‘Welcome to Greater Serbia, excellency,’ the young man said. His accent was Serbian and something else, maybe Galicia. His hair was matted and his white shirt was spotted with soot. He hadn’t shaved for weeks and he clearly had been riding along in the engine. ‘There’s no need to check, further. Nothing’s been touched.’
    Andrianov stood there for a moment looking at the stranger. Then he climbed down. Together they slid the doors closed and started down the line of carriages. There were fifteen of them and a random inspection was enough.
    â€˜I am Krajic,’ the young man said. He had taken out a cigar himself and struck a match against the side of a car as they walked. ‘I’ve been with the shipment since it crossed the Danube. Well, too bad for Bulgaria—it’s spoils of war, now. That will teach these barbarians to turn on us, just because they don’t think they got enough in the peace settlement, eh?’ The way he said it exuded self-satisfaction. A proud young man. Beneath the flap of his jacket, Andrianov saw the handle of a revolver. He stopped.
    The young man caught the direction of his look. ‘ Apis sent me, and let me tell you something, friend. If I’d been planning to do you, you’d be welldone by now.’ He paused for a moment and then came the clear white smile of the new Serbia.
    â€˜Good . . .’ said Andrianov and together they continued to the rear of the train. Andrianov stopped in front of a wagon and broke a second set of seals. The locks snapped open, the doors slid away. Another two howitzers indistinguishable from the first pair except for their serial numbers.
    â€˜The shells are stacked in the last two wagons, but it’s not enough. We’ll need many more than that,’ the boy put in.
    â€˜I thought the war was nearly over? Haven’t you taken what you wanted?’ Andrianov could not resist prodding him.
    â€˜As long as we’re winning I see no reason to sue for peace. They can talk all they want to in London, but this is our land and we will have it back. We don’t call it Greater Serbia for nothing. We were here running things long before the Turks came along, long before the Bulgarians took advantage, and we’ll have it back. We’ll have all of it back,’ the boy said grimly, looking down at the gravel as they walked along the tracks.
    Andrianov inspected the last two wagons—artillery shells packed standing upright with wooden collars and,