A/N: Thank you to those reading and reviewing, as reviews are the true pleasure of this community. I'm sorry this has been a slow update, but as I warned, I needed a little break. I should be back in the saddle now. ;)
The Present: The western campaign
Miles and Bass were riding Zeppelin and Gunsmoke side by side. The only sounds in the forest were the snapping of twigs and the symbiotic thudding of hooves and a hundred soldiers' boots on the frozen earth. It was as if time were fluidly sampling the past and the present to construct an absurd but satisfying symphony of man's wartime achievements, from the days of cavalry to the days of automatic rifles. Indeed, the Militia was currently armed with a hodgepodge of modern-day firearms and period weapons. Miles was very concerned about the limited supplies of ammunition in the main arsenal, and Philadelphia museums had yielded a curious array of rifled Springfields, smoothbore muskets, and even flintlocks, for which Militia blacksmiths could actually produce new lead bullets. Of course, collecting the civilians' arms would give Miles an additional edge on the ammo shortage – that is, if the residents didn't force the militia to expend its precious stores on this campaign. Miles hoped to God they didn't resist.
The weather couldn't have been better for late January – dry and in the twenties at night, still not a flake of snow. As Miles gazed down at his men, trudging along in formation, he was grateful for this small gift from Mother Nature. He wanted the troops (each newly emblazoned with an 'M') to have a good first major campaign to build morale and trust. He noticed that occasionally a soldier would rub his arm where the burnt flesh was still stinging and felt a pang of gratefulness that his soldiers had been willing to demonstrate profound allegiance to…well to his authority, if he was honest.
The columns moved all day, and as the winter sun waned with its usual winter rapidity, Miles gave the order to set up camp.
Miles and Bass then walked the rows of tents - Miles inspecting for variations in discipline; Bass greeting the soldiers by the names he read on their uniforms and filing the information away. Miles tersely deployed orders: "Wash your face and your hands. Change your socks and your underwear," while Bass smiled. He knew Miles had difficulty remembering even faces and that it was his own job to serve as a kind of institutional memory for the both of them. Bass sometimes joked that Miles's 'facial recognition software' was faulty, but Bass knew that Miles simply didn't scrutinize peoples' faces in the same way he did, occasionally critically misjudging them. Miles appeared to counter this lack of social proficiency by approaching most people with suspicion and mistrust until they proved themselves absolutely loyal.
After about the ninth time that Miles ordered a soldier to wash up, Miles noticed Bass's crooked smile.
"What?" Miles asked his friend impatiently, before turning once more to a young corporal to bark, "You there: make sure those tents have more distance between them," indicating the offending tents with his index and middle fingers.
"Thank you, Cpl. Jespersen," Bass added, earning himself a look from Miles. Once Jespersen had scrambled off to fulfill the order, Bass mused at Miles: "A general giving sergeant's orders."
With a surge of irritation, Miles responded, "Well, they have to learn." Bass's comment bit him, because reality was this: he was a sergeant giving general's orders.
Bass smiled, "I know, man. The officers have to learn." He noted the flicker of self-doubt that had migrated across Miles's face. Bass changed the subject, "Oh, been meaning to tell you: we got the new postal service up and running using a combination of horses and boats. It's a regular pony express operation! I'm particularly pleased it fell into place before this mission."
Miles's face suggested that he did not follow.
Bass continued patiently, "Because we can offer real infrastructures to the hostile civilians – woo them into the fold. Come on, Miles. You know this could turn very ugly, if we don't approach it diplomatically."
"Well, that's why I brought you, President." Miles mumbled. He shuddered half from the cold and half from more self-doubt. He was grateful for Bass being here. Miles was afraid that when presented with pushback from citizens, he only had one game plan: force them to comply. He had little sense of how to verbally entice them into the Monroe Republic. He wasn't entirely convinced that life in the Monroe Republic was superior to what the westerners had carved out of the black.
Bass said, "Look Miles. This is a good thing we're doing – giving people protection, civility, structures that will keep them healthy, rebuilding communication and transportation. They'll appreciate it once they realize what we offer." Bass put a hand on Miles's shoulder reassuringly and then noticed that Miles had gotten very still. "Uh oh, you're think-"
"Shh," Miles instructed.
Before Bass could listen for what Miles had heard, they were bombarded by gunfire.
Militia troops were screaming as they went down, some from wounds and others from panic. The shots seemed to be coming from every direction – they were encircled and ambushed. But as Miles's eyes flew wildly about taking in the scene, he soon discovered that the Militia were the far more numerous and that the attackers only had the element of surprise in their favor. There couldn't be more than thirty, thirty-five men out there. Once Miles got his troops to stop lying in the dirt and covering their heads, he was able to quickly repulse the enemy.
Several minutes later, the Militia had taken nine hostages and killed five. The rest had fled the scene. Miles surveyed the casualties in his own forces: seven wounded and three dead. One missing – "Find him, and if he's not been taken prisoner, shoot him on sight. This militia doesn't tolerate cowards," Miles ordered a couple of soldiers. Miles evacuated his wounded back toward Philly and strode over to where the prisoners were being guarded. Bass followed, his head spinning from the action.
Miles surveyed the prisoners silently for a moment. They had on vaguely matching gray jackets and pants, which in combination with the clearly coordinated attack was a bad sign.
"Who are you?" Miles asked a bearded man curtly.
"John- "
"No. Who are you?" Miles repeated, making a sweeping gesture at the prisoners.
John smiled. "Got a cigarette?" he asked Miles with a crackly voice.
"Answer the question." Miles growled, irked by his audacity. The prisoner wasn't afraid – another very bad thing.
"We know about you – the Monroe Militia," John said in a mildly derisive tone. "You're not the only militia around. Call ourselves the Pittsburgh Army."
"How many are in your army?" Miles pressed, scorn hanging on the last word.
John shrugged. "I think I'm going to decline to tell you," he said. And then reading Miles's rank off the stars on his uniform, John added with exceeding contempt: "general."
Miles pointed his pistol at John's heart and shot him dead. Bass jumped from surprise, as did the prisoners and the militia guards.
Without flinching, Miles walked straight up to the next prisoner, whose face had gone deathly pale. "How many?" the general repeated.
The man's lips were quivering, and it looked like he was trying to speak, but no words surfaced. Miles surveyed him steadily for a moment. "Want a cigarette?" Miles offered at last.
The man looked at Miles like he was crazy. But sure enough, Miles took out two hand-rolled cigarettes – one for him and one for the man. He lit them both at once with a match and took a long draw. Bass knew that Miles didn't smoke much – cigars when he could get them – but cigarettes only when they were drunk, or Miles was supremely stressed. But this was different. This was just proving a point. Bass was enthralled.
The man put the cigarette to his shaky lips and finally answered, "We have – well had – maybe 150 total. We're the biggest army in this area. Well…except you, I suppose."
"You suppose correctly," Miles said. "I'm going to assume from the creative title that you're based out of Pittsburgh?"
The man nodded.
Miles gazed at him for another moment and turned on his heel. He said in a low voice to the sergeant overseeing the prisoners:
"Shoot them all."
Bass's eyes widened, and he pulled Miles aside. He didn't want to challenge Miles's authority in front of the men, but this was extreme. Couldn't they use the prisoners to extract more information on the other militias' whereabouts?
"Miles. We can keep them with us under guard. They might be useful for intelligence."
Miles practically interrupted him: "If they're in Pittsburgh, we'll find 'em."
Bass stared into his friend's flashing, black eyes. "Ok, fine. But what if we need to negotiate with the militias, say, if any of our men get taken prisoner?"
"And be pulled into a prisoner exchange cartel? That would be tantamount to recognizing the legitimacy of the other militias, don't you think, President? These men are terrorists, and they should be treated as such." Miles put his hands on his hips and waited for Bass to come round.
Bass continued gazing at his friend, searching himself for further objections, but found he was mainly impressed with Miles's logic. In fact, Bass wished he'd thought of it himself.
The sergeant spoke up to confirm orders. "Sirs?" Frankly, it wasn't entirely clear to the soldiers who was in charge, as they'd never operated under both Matheson and Monroe at once. Was the Monroe Republic like the United States in that the president was also commander-in-chief? Or was the general-in-chief where the buck stopped for all military decisions?
Bass glanced at Miles's set face one more time. Miles nodded at Bass, and the question was answered. General Matheson would defer to President Monroe after all. The troops took note. Bass promptly ordered the sergeant, his voice colder now: "Shoot them."
The next day, Miles's brain was disturbingly fuzzy, as he swayed in his mount. He hadn't slept at all last night, his mind going over again and again his decision to execute the prisoners. Every time he replayed the moment, he came up believing he'd done the smart thing. But smart didn't necessarily feel right. But what was right? Miles had never been religious, like his Catholic mother. He'd seen enough gray in his time as a Marine to know that black and white were colors that didn't exist in war. He was blessed and cursed of an extremely decisive personality and rarely expended too much energy on regret. Well…except when it came to his brother, but that was another topic entirely. And what happened yesterday, well, Miles hadn't made that decision alone. He'd made it with Bass, or Bass had made it for him – frankly, he wasn't entirely sure.
In any case, they'd had a much better morning than last night. Bass had convinced four different settlements to turn over their arms on the way to Pittsburgh, despite the citizens' fears that this would hinder their ability to hunt for food in the long winter. Bass promised that that the Republic would subsidize the rebuilding of marketplaces in their vicinity, which would not only improve their odds of getting a meal but also expand the variety of food to which they had access. Doc Arora, who was accompanying the militia, commented that some of the civilians were manifesting symptoms of scurvy, which meant they had been critically deprived of vitamin C for at least three months. In short, they desperately needed access to fruits and vegetables. All in all, Bass was proving to be very persuasive amongst the populace, and Miles was happy to take a back seat to him for a few hours.
Yet the calm didn't last long. By mid-afternoon, the Monroe Militia found itself facing down another ambush. In this scuffle – another Matheson victory – Bass actually had his horse shot out from under him, sending a surge of panic through Miles's chest, as he watched his friend thud to the ground and roll out just in time to avoid being crushed under the panicked beast. Miles himself had to finish off Smoke, which broke his heart. "So sorry, girl," Miles whispered to her, as he put her out of his misery. Despite Bass's initial opposition to horse riding, he had walked into the trees to stand alone after the battle, and when Miles saw him again, he could tell that Bass's eyes were red. Miles couldn't blame him: he believed that next to Bass, he'd be most devastated to lose his own mare. It was amazing how much he'd grown to rely on Zeppelin as a source of emotional stability. He almost wondered how he'd gotten through previous wars without an equine companion.
Bass was now limping slightly from his fall but insisted that he was fine. Arora took a look at the ankle and proclaimed it a minor sprain, but still, Miles didn't like it. He tried to convince Bass to go home, even after one of the other officers had given up his horse to the president.
"Miles. Enough," Bass said, silencing him. "I'm finishing the campaign."
Miles believed the new assault had been issued by a different set of what he'd publicly dubbed "terrorists." More and more he feared they hadn't even scratched the surface of the paramilitary organizations out here in the western reaches of what was once Pennsylvania. To top off the growing misery of surviving two battles in twenty-four hours, ice rain began pelting the weary troops.
That night, Miles was in Bass's tent, watching him elevate his swollen ankle, passing back and forth a bottle of whiskey. They listened intently to the jingly music of the sleet outside.
Miles finally spoke: "Before we left, you mentioned Chicago. I think we'll be lucky to breech Ohio at this rate. There are lots of hostiles out there. I say we clean the rebels out of Pittsburgh and go home."
Bass nodded. "This would be a lot easier if we could move faster than on foot."
"The rivers? Could work on constructing a navy- "
Bass interrupted, "That'll take a while, but yes. More and more I think we've been going about this the wrong way. We shouldn't be coaxing people into the Monroe Republic, we should just assume that everyone is in the Monroe Republic – or they face consequences. We've now had a string of military successes. If we earn the reputation that we can't be beat, then expansion will naturally follow."
"Expansion…" Miles pondered the word awhile. "Where does it stop?"
Bass shrugged. "When we face resistance we can't overcome?"
"But…" Miles had no idea what he even wanted to ask, so he finally tried, "Why?" and hoped that Bass would understand him. Bass usually did.
And he did: "Because the devil you know is better than the devil you don't? You've seen how many other militias we've come across. There must be hundreds, thousands, out there roaming the former United States."
"What if…" and here Miles's face fell deadly serious, "What if the devil we don't know is actually us?"
Bass shifted uncomfortably and repositioned his sore ankle. "Come on, man. You don't believe that."
