<h3 style="text-align: center">Murdoch


    As it turned out, there was no regular ferry to South Dubhamer, so I sailed across on a military barge packed full with rations and mail. Then I rode with the supply truck crew on a rough dirt road across thirty miles of tundra until we reached the citadel of Fort Firclaw.


    The whole time I sat in the truck, gazing out at the blasted white landscape, I thought of how we Wylders had never considered Dubhamer worth settling. We thought it an icy, unforgiving land fit only for seal hunting expeditions and fatal exile. As we rumbled on, I imagined those exiled Wyldmen wandering aimlessly through this wilderness, looking for nonexistent comfort till they died. Their bones may very well have been beneath the tires of the sixwheel I now rode.


    The great stone citadel itself was in the midst of a snowy expanse between high cliffs. These cliffs serve to shield it from the worst of the northern winds. Just north of the fort, in a place where there was no road, there was a tree line. Somewhere in the tree line was the unmarked border that separated the Paxanan territory of South Dubhamer from the CCNCU-controlled North. The island, as far as I could tell, had no civilian population. Our only presence was the citadel, which seemed fairly well run and well supplied, considering how far it was from proper civilization. I had been told there were CCNCU bases present on the island as well, but I never saw them.


    I arrived in the late morning, having taken the barge at dawn. In Nilafossum, I had bought an extra lining for my overcoat, and a padded hat. I was well prepared for the chill, and it did not bother me. Upon reaching Firclaw, I met with the men in charge, and I quickly made arrangements to have the whole battalion muster for inspection and demonstration. I had been taught by my superiors that an Integrity Office man should appear by surprise and call muster as quickly as is feasible. This stops the division commanders from sweeping any shortcomings under the rug.


    In the span of an hour, the division did muster. I simply watched with a quiet disposition from the wall of the citadel as they did so. Then, with all 1,800 infantrymen and 160 tank personnel standing at attention, I walked down the snowy stone steps to make my assessment.


    The sky was clear and the wind was calm. Both these facts were a blessing to the men, because I would have called an immediate muster in almost any weather. I could tell right from my first approach that some of them weren''t dressed for the cold. This concerned me, because I felt it meant they weren''t engaging in the proper combat exercises. If one was truly out in the field every day, I reasoned, he would know what to wear when going out for muster.


    This battalion, per its records, was a mixed tank and infantry battalion. Sure enough, there were forty-eight Mark II light tanks painted with white and gray tundra camouflage in a grid on the right side of the enormous muster formation. I knew from my reading that a full-strength mixed battalion was supposed to possess sixty tanks, and sure enough I saw twelve empty spaces where twenty-four men stood without their vehicles.


    I would address the tank situation soon enough. I started, however, with the men who were nearest to me. These were the infantry enlisted. Walking between the rows, I decided to single out a teenage private who had rested his Springbolt rifle against his leg in the snow. I could see that he had done it so as to free his hands and breathe on them for warmth.


    I approached rapidly, using a stern tone. I didn''t mind that my Wylder accent came out a little when I conducted inspections. I felt it might give me a strangeness, an animal quality, that garnered respect. "What is the mark on the stock of your rifle, Private?" I asked him, standing but a foot away. I watched him resist the urge to look at me, staring ahead.


    Immediately, he knew what he had done wrong, and he picked up the weapon, standing stiff. "Sir, the calendula, sir," said the private.


    "Why the calendula?" I asked.


    "Sir, because this rifle is the property of the emperor, sir."


    "And why would you place the property of your emperor in the sleet and muck at your feet?"


    The private swallowed. "Sir, I acted in poor judgment, sir."


    The private seemed deferent, and he''d corrected his mistake. "See you don''t again," I told him and moved on.


    After a few more corrections of various uniform errors, I reached an officer, a Captain Cameron Lovewell. I identified him by matching his rank and station to the battalion documents I''d received. He was tall and slim, which was a common build for a Paxanan officer. He had dark brown coloring and a certain dashing beauty to his appearance.


    Not letting any of this sway me, I extended a hand to shake. "Captain," I said.


    It was a firm and brief handshake, one of mutual respect. "Cameron Lovewell," he said, treating me as an equal. We were equals in rank, it''s true, even though I was currently in charge of evaluations.


    "Is this your armor?" I asked him.


    "Front half is mine, First Battalion. Back half belongs to Captain Hearther, Second Battalion," Captain Lovewell explained. Both, as I understood it, reported directly to the division’s commanding major, Blackwell.


    "Can you tell me why a number of your men have arrived at roll call without their vehicles?" I asked the captain.


    "Failed to start," said Lovewell.


    I walked with him as we spoke, trying to keep my voice loud so the armor men could hear. "How many?" I asked.


    "Fourteen," said Lovewell.


    “Mm.” I nodded and looked again at the shivering tank crews.


    "Two men per tank. Mark IIs take a driver and a gunner-commander," said Lovewell.


    "Officers?" I asked. It varied from division to division whether the gunner-commanders were officers.


    "Every fifteenth Mark II has a lieutenant as gunner-commander. The rest, various enlisted, trained in armored warfare."


    I folded my arms and looked them over. They weren''t the worst I''d seen, but they were far from the best. "Twenty-six tank men with no tanks to man. What do they do all day?" I asked him. This was getting at my deeper point, that I suspected the division of failing to drill. It was an understandable shortcoming given the inclement weather, but that was no excuse.


    "General base duties," said Lovewell, sounding hesitant.


    "Have you reported these engine failures to Home Command?" I asked.


    Lovewell swallowed and looked like he was trying to be diplomatic. "In a sense," he murmured.


    I had no time for political speech. "What do you mean?"


    He obliged me and laid it out. "The Mark II is expected to have a ten percent failure rate in icy environments, even in proper condition."


    I shook my head at this. "Do you expect the enemy to attack only in summer?"


    At this moment, he appeared to break from formality and regard me as someone he could trust. "That would be an excellent question for the Mark II design team," he said with some bitterness.


    I nodded, and I understood his point. He felt they were doing the best they could with the mediocre tanks they had been given. Whether or not that was true, it was his position, and I would record it as such in my report.


    We shook hands again, and to my surprise I felt him slip a piece of paper into my tender palm as we touched. I paused, subtly pocketing the paper in my overcoat, and tried to collect myself. I could tell he didn''t want anyone around to know what we had just done.


    "Thank you," I said, caught off-guard, and moved on. Selecting a Mark II tank crew almost at random, I approached. They were from the Second Battalion, toward the back. There was a sergeant standing beside the tank and a corporal standing next to him. Both were a little older than me and looked alarmed to have been chosen.


    I looked at the number on the tank and used it to address them. "Crew 136, at ease." The sergeant and corporal looked confused, and stayed fairly stiff. "Any known operational issues with this vehicle?" I asked.


    "No, sir," said the sergeant.


    "Good," I said. Then I pointed across the plain to a lone spindly pine. "I want you to move as quickly as you can without accident and destroy that tree with your main gun."


    After I said it, I calmly extended my hand from my sleeve and began to track the second hand of my wristwatch.


    "We don''t have live shells in the cabin," said the corporal, trepidatious and faltering.


    I did not acknowledge him. Instead, I just continued to watch the second hand tick across the face.


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    The corporal turned to his sergeant. "We don''t have live shells in the cabin."


    "Your timer has started, by the way, gentlemen," I said, in case it was not clear.


    The sergeant looked flustered. "Well, go to the armory!" he shouted to his corporal.


    The corporal took a second to process the command, then ran off. "Armor-piercing or high-explosive?" he asked as he jogged.


    "High-explosive," the sergeant called to him.


    While the corporal was fetching the shells, the sergeant scrambled into the tank and dropped down inside. He turned the engine over and I heard it whine in vain. Then, on a second try, it properly started.


    A minute later, the corporal came jogging back from the armory holding two tank shells. He looked like he might trip, which caused a few of the other men in the muster to panic. I wasn''t worried, because I knew the designation of those shells, and I knew that a simple fall from chest height would not be enough to ignite them. They had fuses that needed to be primed just before firing.


    "Sergeant, take ''em," said the corporal.


    The sergeant stuck his head out and the corporal passed the two shells up. "In, get in!" the sergeant shouted.


    Both men clambered into the small round-top tank and together pulled the lid shut. The Mark II tank jerked backwards as it began to drive, and a few other tank crewmen reflexively stepped from their lines.


    "Mind your formation," I said to them, stern. I would rather they nearly be hit than show that kind of panic in a roll call environment.


    Inside, the tank crew seemed to get their bearings. They drove forward and turned to exit the muster formation. Still glancing at the second hand, I watched the tank drive about forty feet away, then halt. The turret turned with a creak, aiming, and the main cannon raised up in height.


    Then there was an enormous booming sound as the Mark II fired. If there had been any mountains nearby, I''m sure they would have suffered an avalanche just from the sonic effect. Thankfully, all our surroundings were flat, leading up to the cliff faces.


    There was a second of nothing, and I was almost sure that the shot was a bust. Then an explosion felled the tree I had pointed out. To my surprise, the very first shot was on target.


    I took note of the final time, then I lowered my arm and covered my watch with my sleeve. When I looked up again, the tank crew had emerged from their top hatch, grinning. I suppressed the urge to congratulate them, and stayed strict, playing the character I knew I needed to play as an inspector. "What do you want, a cherry bun?" I snapped. "Get your armor back in formation. Infantry! You''re next. Ready up. We''re doing marksmanship tests."


    That evening, with the sun still in the sky, I sat in the near-empty officer''s mess of Fort Firclaw and ate a bowl of soup. The officer''s mess was well arranged with imported chairs and framed paintings of lightsman knights on the walls. It was not mealtime, and so the room was almost empty.


    I had two reasons for eating outside of regular hours. The first was that I didn''t want to consort too closely with the men of the base, even the officers, lest they somehow sway me in my assessment. The second was that I wanted privacy enough to unfold the scrap of paper from Lovewell, and I had not yet been allowed to unpack in my own accommodations.


    I brushed frost off my beard and glanced around. Seeing that I was alone, or at least that my shoulders blocked view of my hands, I reached into my pocket and retrieved the paper note. I unfolded it, and saw that he had written in plain print text, "CHECK NORTH TREE LINE." I read it a few times to make sure it was as I first thought.


    I knew there was indeed a north tree line. I had seen it as I had approached, but it was not part of the base. I wasn''t sure why this was of interest or what he wanted me to check. It did not seem written in a tone that one would use to court a personal rendezvous. Confused, I folded the note up and re-pocketed it.


    After some internal debate, I decided to visit Captain Lovewell in his quarters. The upside to this was obviously that I could get to the bottom of whatever he had meant by his note in the quickest fashion. The downside was, if he didn''t want to be seen with me, this may in some way endanger whatever his scheme was. After all, he could perfectly well have not slipped me a note, and just met with me in private later in the day. Still, I decided to take the risk.


    To get from the officer''s mess to the officer''s lodging required a walk up precarious stone steps on the outside of the northern face of the citadel. Although there was no storm coming in, the northern face was the gustiest face, and a few times on the way up I had to stop to catch my balance lest I fall. I buttoned an extra button on my overcoat so it would not act as a sail in the evening wind.


    I marveled at the sight of the large gun emplacements that all faced north, toward land that on paper was held by the CCNCU. I saw no Clementic flag or trace of existence on the horizon. It was their land, I realized, in name only. I thought it likely that a time would come when we would unite Dubhamer.


    I reached an exterior landing near the parapets and found Lovewell''s door. Coming close to it, I knocked twice, hearing my fist echo on the hollow metal. "Captain, it''s Murdoch Boll. I thought we should talk about your readiness and..."


    I froze. A strange feeling had overtaken me. I knew, perhaps through ancestral guidance, that something was not right. Putting my hand on the knob, I turned it, and through providence I had already known that it would be unlocked. Slowly, opening Lovewell''s room, I felt a freezing draft cut through me. The windows on the far side, facing the courtyard, were wide open.


    Knowing this was not normal, I rushed across the room and looked out. Straight below me, four stories down, I saw the beautiful Captain Lovewell dead from a fall on a roof below. I felt my whole body tense, then turn to action. Rushing back to the wall near the front door, I hit the alarm.


    Only seconds passed before the nearest MPs rushed in with their rifles readied.


    "Sir," said the first MP, looking to me for guidance.


    "Captain Lovewell." These were all the words I could say, and I was surprised by how acutely emotion had taken me in that shock. Lacking a voice, I pointed to the window, and both men looked down as I had.


    "Secure this room," I told them thinly, trying hard to regain my authority. "Don''t touch anything. Don''t let anyone in. Find a ladder to get me to the body."


    "Yes, sir," the first MP said, and I was glad to have no pushback in these orders.


    Sometime after dark, after I determined that Lovewell had indeed died from the injuries of a sudden fall, I entered the citadel''s windowless communications center. What I saw when I went in was one operator sitting with feet on a desk, lazily reading a magazine. He must have been terribly frightened when he saw me, perhaps expecting that I was coming in as part of my IO duties. He jumped, dropping the magazine on the ground, then picked it up and hurriedly closed it.


    I was not there to exact discipline on the young man. "Can you get a telephone call to the main isle?" I asked him.


    "There''s one direct line," said the operator. "Pick it up and it connects."


    He pointed to a red receiver connected to a large telephone battery. I picked it up and indeed the line went live. A man who sounded about thirty answered. "Armor Command," said the operator on the far side.


    I tried to speak with urgency and calm all at once. "Put me through to the Integrity Office. This is Captain Murdoch Boll. B-O-L-L."


    My reasons for calling home should be obvious. Lovewell had handed me a note in such a way that, to me, suggested a conspiracy somewhere in the citadel. Only hours later, he was dead. There was no way it could be a suicide.


    The Armor Command operator on the line gave me bad news. "This line only reaches General Ravenridge''s office, sir, but I can relay a message."


    I scowled. "Ravenridge?"


    The operator on the phone tried to explain. "He has command over the base at South Dubhamer. Was there a message you wanted us to pass along, sir?"


    I had to be clever at this. I knew if anyone was going to be rotten, it was probably Major Blackwell, the division commander. I also knew Blackwell and Ravenridge were commonly known to be thick as thieves in the brass. This meant I couldn''t trust Ravenridge either, despite him being a general and decorated veteran.


    "Tell the Integrity Office division readiness seems acceptable. Some personnel concerns. Full report forthcoming."


    "Anything else?" the Armor Command operator asked.


    I saw my way through. "Yes. Get a message to a Mr. John Clearwater Jr. at Cabinet Hall. Tell him your father asked about northern wildflowers. Lots in bloom in Dubhamer. I think Sarah Paul should come take some samples. Got that?"


    I prayed silently to the ancestors that Jack Jr. would not be too daft to get the message. "Yes, sir," said Armor Command, with static in the line.


    Just as I heard the words, I saw a shadow creeping up behind me. I turned rapidly, hanging up, and saw Major Claude Blackwell entering. He was, as I said, the commander of the whole division, which meant he commanded the citadel as well. He was the only one here, I reckoned, who had a strong claim to tell me what to do, even though Integrity Office investigations were supposed to be independent.


    Blackwell had a narrow face and brows that seemed tense. There were hollows in his cheeks that caught the light of the electric lamps in a way I found quite eerie. "Sir," I said, and continued saluting, but didn''t.


    "I''m sorry you had to witness that," said Blackwell. I didn''t like his tone at all.


    "I''m sorry about your man," I said back, standing my ground.


    Blackwell was wearing a scarf along with his uniform, and he played with it in thought. "We get one or two suicides a year in the winter season, usually once they''re too deep in drink or..." He paused as if deciding whether to share a secret. "Captain Lovewell had struggled with morphine withdrawal."


    I had seen morphine withdrawal before, and Lovewell seemed far from it. "He seemed fine this afternoon," I said, watching my tone.


    "They do until they don''t," said Blackwell. I noticed the operator was once again trying very hard to busy himself in his magazine, so as not to be involved in the conversation. "I''ve already selected a new captain for the First Armored Battalion. A Rupert Sanestrand. We''ll move him into the commanders’ tower as soon as Lovewell''s things and body are cleared out."


    I didn''t like the speed with which the thing was progressing, or the authority Blackwell was exercising. "I ordered the MPs to leave it undisturbed," I said.


    Blackwell shook his head. "Yes, well, I''m the base commander, Captain Boll. It''s not a crime scene. It''s a common suicide, and it''s bad for morale to let it linger. If you disagree, by all means, write as much in your report."


    I could have tried to escalate, but I didn''t want Blackwell knowing I suspected a conspiracy. I decided to opt for tact. "Can I access Lovewell''s effects, sir?" I asked, hoping this would provide some path forward.


    Blackwell looked displeased that I''d asked, but he assented. "If you wish. Whatever hasn''t already been sent south with the supply trucks."


    I went on. "I will be continuing my evaluation of the base, regardless." I thought this would serve two good purposes. One, to make it seem like all was normal, and two, to give me good reason to keep snooping.


    "Naturally," said Blackwell, difficult to read.


    I was getting hot in my overcoat, but I didn''t take it off, because I knew that soon I would be facing the night cold again. "I''ll need a personal vehicle, something that can get me a few miles out from the fort."


    "For?" asked Blackwell.


    I was aware I was taking a risk by asking, but there was no good way to get out to the tree line purely on foot. "Integrity Office business, sir," I said.


    Blackwell paused. Now it was his turn to decide whether or not he wanted to force the issues of rank and independence. "I can give you a reconnaissance horse," he said.


    It seemed tactical, like he didn''t expect me to ride, like he thought that would be enough of an inconvenience that I would simply change my mind. Little did he know I was an excellent horseman in my own right.


    "That''ll be fine, thank you," I said, and made mental note to set out at morning light.