Evening, all. Sort of an oddity we have here tonight. As the title says this is an excerpt from a larger project (mostly unwritten). It's also an oddity in that it's not a western per se, though it wanders into a western setting eventually. Sort of an alternate-history western, I suppose. Be that as it may I've since run it by Forty Rod, who tells me it's borderline readable.
At any rate...it's unlikely I'll be posting any more than the two parts here in the near future (being as it's not written and all). That said, I'd be interested in your opinions on one of the character as depicted.
Good, bad, or ugly...any opinions appreciated.
***
Ten years he had wanted this, and now he was sick to his stomach at the promise of tomorrow. Of course the uncertainty didn't show. It never did. He studied his reflection in the small mirror as he closed the front of his cadet's jacket; the uniform spotless, seams in perfect alignment, brass buttons polished to the sheen of gold, the fingers moving in practiced order. On his feet, high boots buffed by hand until the leather shone like black glass. Around his neck the heavy black collar required of all who attended the Citadel as students. Above it all the face, the expression faintly aristocratic, the eyes calm as they measured the man opposite.
Early on, Val Dunning had learned the value of a properly composed countenance, the ability to show a presence of mind not always felt. Composure was his armor, and behind that he could conceal anything. He had learned to hide the disappointment before the army, almost a decade ago. In time he taught himself to hide pain, confusion and uncertainty. Or so be believed until he came to the Citadel, the best reputed of all military academies on the Continent, where every seasoned officer, every instructor, and every upperclassmen were finely honed to detect fear, pain, or uncertainty and - if those were found lacking - to gift the student with suitable replacements.
He brushed at his uniform and listened. Outside in the square, the third year cadets were shouting, forming the underclassmen for the morning's ceremonies.
But he had a leg up. He was not immune, but he suffered less than most of his classmates, boys from noble families less accustomed to be told of their limitations who tended to lock up and stand frozen save a quivering jaw or a mouth agape, responses that only seemed to enrage their tormentors or, if the day was going especially sour, draw others. More than a few had broken when drillmasters or upperclassmen attacked en masse, reporting to the commandant within the hour to surrender the small silver disk that was the primary measure of their worth at the Citadel.
This is your commission! a senior cadet had screamed at them in their first formation, holding his own token above his head. The class was newly issued tokens of their own, most clutched in sweating hands since - as explained only minutes before - proper officers in the king's army did not carry things in their uniform pockets. Four hundred boys stood in ranks and listened in rapt attention as the upperclassman stalked up and down their rows and columns.
You do not lose your commission! To lose your commission is to disgrace the service! To be disgraced is to be dead! In truth, they would later learn, the token itself was not the commission. Rather, those who survived their time at the academy would take theirs to the farrier at the Home Guard stables to have their name, class rank, and service commencement date stamped graven one side, the likeness of the king on the reverse. Then and only then would they have a formal officer's commission and a place in the crown's army. Until such time it was one more article for which a cadet had to account, a coin-sized piece of silver easily misplaced and quite frequently the target of senior cadets, who in their free time devised new and amusing ways of separating an underclassman from his token.
If they succeeded - or if the cadet broke and surrendered it of his own accord - there was one final insult that remained.
Dunning remembered those. No matter the hour, no matter the weather, the full academy would muster in formation on the parade ground. At the head of the field was a long stand where instructors and honored guests and generals would stand to watch their charges pass in review. At one end would be the commandant, at the other the cadet, and before the eyes of his peers he would be forced to cross the hundred feet of open stand and place his token in the pot.
Night seemed to be the worst. Of the class of four hundred and some only seventy were left standing, and most of those who had searched and found themselves lacking had done so in the dark hours of the morning, their departure ceremony held under weak electric light. They were hated especially by those that remained; not necessarily because of their weaknesses or shortcomings, but because any inconsiderate soul who forced his comrades from warm beds and much needed sleep was held in low regard on general principle. To a man they would have been markedly better liked - if not respected - for having waited until after breakfast.
In a move that had become habitual over the past days he touched two fingers to base of his throat, pressing lightly and feeling the disk in the small pouch he carried around his neck, the token newly replaced.
As was traditional at the Citadel, seventy men graduated in a class. Some would go to the army, others to the navy, a very few to the marines. The top ten percent - the best seven of the seventy - would carry forth the distinction by trading their silver blank for a gold commission. A man with a golden ticket was almost assured the assignment of his choice. Since the moment he had decided his destiny lay in the crown's service Dunning had known which he wanted.
In his second year he was called with his classmates before a board of serving military officers to declare their preference. When called from the ranks he marched to the board, squared his shoulders, and stood at attention before a panel of men who had fought across oceans and continents under the royal colors, who had visited the farthest corners of the world, gazed on spectacles that the best of correspondents could never capture with words, and whose records were sufficiently distinguished as to allow them the option of returning to train the next batch.
"Your preference cadet?" The speaker was a man past forty, stout, his dark hair salted with silver. From his left hand were missing three fingers.
In an instant he felt the temptation of vast golden deserts, of jungles, of faraway places where snowcapped mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, of people with brown almond-shaped eyes or skin the color of obsidian who spoke in strange languages. Of animals that could only otherwise exist in the imaginations of children. Of massed armies clashing on the plains against some faceless enemy and ironclad ships of the line firing desperate broadsides in precise sequence. For the moment all the world was before him. He could choose any station where the crown held sway. It was a heady moment.
But he held firm. He stood at attention with his cap tucked under his arm and his heels touching and his uniform spotless. He did not hesitate.
"Imperial Horse Guards, sir," he said crisply.
He waited. The board had his records. Two years so far, impeccable as his dress and military bearing. Even then he was a top cadet.
And the Imperial Horse Guards were the finest soldiers. He had seen them once, when he was young and the king crossed the ocean on a tour of his empire. Great men on stout black horses, parading in flawless order. Unlike the regular army the Guards kept to the old. Each man wore a shining breastplate and flowing cape in the king's colors. On their heads they wore steel helmets like knights of old, and instead of rifles - with which, as the royal household guard, they were quite proficient - they carried polished halberds and heavy swords. Their horses were warhorses proper, huge animals bred to fight with hooves and teeth from the time they were placed under saddle, hooves flashing with steel shoes.
He waited. For a moment the board studied him. Dunning kept his face an impassive mask.
"Noted, cadet."
"Sir." He clicked his heels, made a parade-perfect turn, and resumed his position in the formation. There was no confirmation or denial, but even then he was certain of his place. He was an ideal cadet. They could not refuse.
Even now he allowed himself a faint smile. Picturing himself not in the anonymous white of a cadet, but the king's own colors. He would have to leave the Continent, of course, but that was both expected and acceptable. With no luck he tried to imagine what his father might say. To attend the Citadel was one thing. To survive was a mark of distinction. Now to get the Imperial Horse Guards - that was an achievement. For a bastard, especially.
And bastard or not, nobody would throw that in his face one now. Regardless of the circumstance of his birth the army was a grand equalizer. Dunning might not carry his fathers name, but he possessed considerable merit of his own. Name would count for less than deed. Before it had been opposite, perhaps. Not now.
He finished dressing and turned to his left and right, inspecting for wayward threads or specks of lint. Seeing none, he put on his inspection gloves and straightened his dress jacket. All that was missing now was the sword. A man might hold a commission, true, but until he held a sword he wasn't a real officer. Those would come later, issued in the order of graduation.
With some small feeling like sadness he surveyed his room. Plain, unadorned like all the cadet quarters. A narrow bed. A small desk. A window which was never allowed open in summer and forever let in the cold during winter. The standing closet inspected at random intervals once a week. On the foot of the bed his waiting luggage.
Nothing in the room remained of his life before the uniform. Very little within him remained, for that matter. No longer was he Val Dunning, low-born natural son of a railroad man. Now he was Brevet Lieutenant Valantine Dunning of His Imperial Majesty's Royal Army, soon to be Lieutenant Dunning of the Imperial Horse Guards, and heaven alone knew beyond that. He would see this room only once more when he came to collect his things. Then he would be off to serve king and country and the space would be assigned another cadet, another boy who would learn to hide things, to give nothing away. Another gold commission, possibly, though he knew it was unlikely.
He let himself out and walked to the parade ground under a sky scudded by clouds the color of pewter. Already the other cadets were drifting that way though the formal ceremonies would come later in the day. Most of those who remained he recognized, some he greeted and most he acknowledged with a nod. Making friends at the Citadel was a chancy affair. Some would fail. Some would quit. Most learned early in their time here not to forge ties too closely. Still, acquaintances were inevitable and as the seasons passed cadets gained a feel for who would stay and who would disappear.
Near the field he encountered one who had stayed. Jahnst Fremant was an odd match for Dunning and a odder match still for the army; where the academy lived and died on good order Fremant was frequently haphazard, where instructors sought to instill a sense of bearing and dignity Fremant was perpetually grinning at some small joke....where Dunning was fourth in his class Fremant would be sixty-eighth. Doubtless there was a place in the army for the man, though Dunning was hard-pressed to imagine where.
Fremant spotted him across the crowd and waved a half-greeting. He cut across the trickle of cadets, families, and well-wishers and drew himself up ramrod straight to feign a salute.
"Luhten-ut Dunning, sah!" The voice was pitched, but not by much. Fremant came from the provinces down south where life was slower and more sultry - which Dunning took to mean merely lazy and hot - and he'd brought his accent north, much to the delight of local women, which for reasons known only to God and females was found a source of great amusement and appeal. Winters at the Citadel had proven a challenge, unaccustomed as he was to the biting gale winds that blew in off the bay or snow in any significant accumulation and duration, but he had survived somehow. Fremant was a man of considerable surprises.
Dunning mirrored the salute, embarrassed at the exchange having drawn the attention of several passers-by. By regulation it was not altogether out of place, with Fremant entering the crown's service as an ensign and himself breveted to lieutenant as a reward for his class placement, but the significance was minor and largely a formality. A brevet lieutenancy netted him pay equal to a full lieutenant and no more; for all intents and purposes otherwise Dunning was an ensign, would serve in an ensign's capacity, and would have only the duties expected of an ensign. He would, however, have the privilege of being addressed by the higher rank and the not-insignificant advantage in silver.
"By God," Fremant said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Not a day out of the academy and already a lieutenant. A captain with the month, a major by year's end, and soon enough you won't even recognize your old schoolmates."
"I'll recognize you," Dunning allowed himself to laugh. "By odor, if nothing else."
"Oh, you're a cruel one, lieutenant. Terrible cruel. But since you cut the very image of a fine young officer of the king I'll let it go. Have you got your orders yet?"
"No, not yet. I've been told it'll take a day or two, depending. Why?"
"Well - " Fremant rubbed his hands together. "A little bird flew by and told me earlier of a particular house on a particular street over in the lovely burg of Lowell, where a freshly minted servant of the crown might chance to find a number of patriotic young ladies who - "
"And what would these fair maidens ask in return?"
"Naught but to do their part for those brave young men who wear the uniform." Fremant laughed. "Patriotism is a wonderful thing."
Dunning eyed his friend, conflicted. On the one side it seemed trivial that his outing after the academy would be a pursuit of something as shallow. On the other, the Citadel was a place of strict discipline and few of the comforts a man might have enjoyed before the uniform. And the commandant had not yet passed on his orders for a new station, and likely would not for a few days at least and a week at most. Until such time he had no obligations. Most ensigns would take the opportunity to return home, to visit relations and old friends before they were called away to their first stations.
Most of them. He himself had no real home to which he could return. The alternative - spend a few days idling away in the transient officers' quarters - appealed to him not at all. He weighed the possibilities.
He thought of the small room where he had spent the past years, and he shuddered at the prospect of staying another night. A lively evening in town, a decent meal, and a willing girl on his arm was just the thing.
"Sounds like an evening," he said.
"Good. There's a few others coming along. I'll find you after we're done. We'll have to hurry, though - last train for Lowell leaves at seven. We'll be cutting it fine."
"I'll be there." He clapped Fremant on the shoulder. "Hold the train for me, if not."
Fremant laughed and melted into the crowd.
Just like the man. Not even graduated and out of the academy and already he was arranging celebrations and victory marches. Still, there was a certain liveliness about Fremant. Any acquaintance knew that so long as he was around the atmosphere would be seldom be dull.
Dunning tried to remember his last woman. It wasn't difficult. It wasn't altogether pleasant, either - he knew she had been not much older than him, pale and redheaded, and that he'd been too preoccupied with having his traveling chest in order and making the train the following morning and his future with the army to pay much attention. Afterwards he was glad of the opportunity to hand over the silver to be rid of her.
"Lehtenna Dunneh!" a man called from within the crowd.
Dunning half-turned and spotted the source, a middle aged man with a perpetual fighter's grimace. In the third year Captain Allmant lectured on leading small units and countering irregular warfare. In his lectures he paced back and forth before his audience, gesturing with a short curved sword that he had taken as a prize early in his army career. He cut an intimidating figure, even years away from his last battle, and not on account of his choice in accoutrements; his former garrison in the far east had suffered a nighttime infiltration by native guerrillas, and he'd been nearby when they succeeded in setting fire to the magazine, which proceeded to explode, burning him badly and pelting him with flying debris to which he later lost an eye. As a result the left half of his face was a veined and miscolored pink, peppered with smaller scars. On occasion he neglected to wear his eye patch, which today was not the case, thankfully.
Allmant offered a crushing hand. "Eh see ye've mede it."
"Yes, sir."
"Et's good. I knew ye'd still be ere. Ye get too ged a mend fer tectics etherwise End eh see ye've get a ged home they gev yeh. Ged feghtin' men weth a ged leng hestry. Lets eh glery en the neme."
"Sir?" Dunning cocked his head slightly, less because of Allmant's natural butchery of the tongue - thanks in part to jaw injuries from his last duty - but because the Guards, despite their long history, were not widely considered a fighting unit. The captain's grip slackened somewhat.
"Eh? Heven't ye heard?"
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