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It didn't take long. Under the circumstances, the sick men had no choice but to try to walk, and they managed pretty well if there was someone to help them. Mark and Chinma helped the last two of Cole's team. Rusty was helping them to a room well along the corridor when he heard a distant explosion. It was starting.
Some soldiers just couldn't get up and walk, even with help, and the cots had no wheels and there were no elevators and none of the caregivers were strong enough to carry them up one or two flights of stairs. So they had to remain on the lower floors. In every case, a caregiver stayed with them. No speeches, they just stayed. Nobody in this place was going to die alone.
Up on the top floor, the soldiers were lying on rows of pallets, far too many for each room—but a little crowding was bearable if it kept them alive long enough. Rusty watched the ballet of caregivers moving among the soldiers, talking to them, touching them, giving them water.
This is how you fight an epidemic.
Then somebody sneezed, and everyone turned to look. It was Mark.
He looked around at the others. "I always wear the mask," he said quietly.
Chinma touched Mark's shoulder and said nothing.
Rusty could imagine what the other
caregivers were thinking. Mark had caught the nictovirus; so could they.
Then again, if the enemy soldiers had their way, they'd all be dead before sunset. Rusty chose not to make this observation aloud, however.
In the silence of the room, the sound of gunfire could be heard outside. "Maybe that's the Marines," said somebody.
One of the soldiers spoke up. "It's the bad guys," he said.
"How do you know?" asked a woman.
"The sound of the weapons," he said. "None of ours are firing."
Another soldier said, "Didn't hear any choppers, either."
Silence again. More gunfire. Distant. But not so very distant.
"Dang it," said Rusty, "I always planned to die in a place where I was the best person there. Now I've got to die with all of you. The angels are going to line up to take you to heaven, and I'll have to find my own way, on foot."
Mark seemed to know what Rusty was trying to do, and laughed. "Heck, Mr. Humphries, where you're going it's just downhill all the way."
Everybody laughed, and Rusty gathered Mark close to his body and ruffled his hair. "You're way too old to have somebody muss your hair like this, aren't you?"
"Yes sir," said Mark.
"Well, suck it up, boy," said Rusty.
BORES
Making plans for the future of nations is foolish. The system is too complex. The rules do not change, but the gameboard shifts continually, and your opponents and you are not the only players. Every speck of nature is arrayed against the progress of civilization and must be tussled with every step of the way. Storms, droughts, famines, earthquakes, plagues—all have toppled rulers, crushed civilizations, or at least dashed the hopes of a potentially great player of the game.
The best a ruler can hope to do is make incremental changes to open up options in the future. A suggestion here, a word there, a bit of information to a trusted ally or a predictable enemy. The use of force where required, diplomacy where no victory is possible or necessary.
It isn't a matter of throwing the dice over and over. In truth, you will do better if you avoid ever throwing the dice. In the game of nations, a bad throw can end your game.
Instead, what you need is to get lots and lots and lots of dice. It greatly improves your odds of finding what you need when history requires that you finally commit yourself to a throw. Against an opponent with the normal pair of dice, you want to roll a dozen pairs. Against nature, you want to roll a hundred.
Cole was not sure he was even in control of his Bones. He knew he was walking forward, but he could hardly feel his own muscles moving. Just the faintest twitch moved him forward. Of course, there was no leaping and bounding—the Bones responded to the movements of the body inside them. But the designers had done it right. They had taken into account the needs of an injured, feeble soldier. When you used great force, the Bones magnified you into a superman. When your movements were weak, the Bones did not push beyond a sedate pace.
Cole's real problem was his own brain. The fever had him, and he knew it, but he didn't know how to compensate for it. He could see, but in the bright sunlight he could not see well; he knew he was hallucinating here and there, seeing figures in motion on the periphery of his vision who did not exist, but it was hard to tell the hallucinations from the Noodle's informational displays. Was that what a drone was seeing, or a movement on the street, or an impish bit of fever playing with his mind?
It wouldn't be helpful if he turned and fired at something that didn't exist. Or at a civilian. But his judgment was so slow, he could probably be shot himself in the time it took to make up his mind.
And how was his aim?
