Attributed to Fiorbhinn Mackenzie, 1st century CY
"No, we should Not kill them all, General Walker," Sethaz said, without looking away from the window.
Twin Falls had been the northern anchor of New Deseret, a rich city with many fine craftsmen, thrifty merchants, and surrounded by irrigated fields the Saints tilled with skill and ceaseless labor. Now
… from four stories up, he could still smell the cold ash and the bodies trapped under the rubble, or hanging from crosses outside the ruined walls. Survivors were rebuilding the fortifications.
Much had been lost in the sack. That had been regrettable but necessary; both as an example, and for the sake of the troops, who'd had a long frustrating campaign until then and needed to…
What did they say in the old days? Sethaz thought. Then: Ah, yes, "blow off steam."
He had no mental picture to go with the proverb. Supposedly certain types of low-pressure steam engines still functioned after the Change-the large, heavy ones they'd called atmospheric engines -but such were banned in the Church Universal and Triumphant's territories. He could feel a certain cold something moving at the back of his mind, a lowering rage at the very thought. With practiced ease, he forbade his mind to imagine the forbidden thing.
Odd, he thought. I don't remember what I did in the sack, either. Just… flashes and glimpses. Nobody else will talk about it unless I command them. That was right after the old Prophet died.
Something had happened to him then. He didn't like to think about that, either. Instead he looked at his triumphant soldiers in the avenue below. A caravan of loot was shaping up; the soldiers guarding it were a mixed lot, range-country levies equipped in everything from standard CUT lacquered-leather armor to mail-shirts to vests of boiled cowhide to simple sheepskin jackets sewn with a few washers. They were all well mounted and armed, though, and they seemed cheerful.
Cheerful enough to sing from the Dictations as they mounted up and got things going with a crackle of whips and waving lariats:
"Keepers of the Flame!
Sons of Dominion are we!
From before the crux of Time-"
"The men are in good spirits," he said calmly.
General Walker ducked his head; Sethaz could see the motion faintly reflected in the glass.
"My lord Prophet, that battalion's from Havre District-"
"The Runamuk, Rippling Waters and Sweetgrass levies? Rancher Smith commanding?"
"Yes, my lord Prophet," Walker said, blinking a little at the younger man's grasp of detail. He went on:
"And they're being released from active duty. Of course they're cheerful; they're going back to their home ranges and their herds, with a couple of girl-slaves each to screw and do the camp chores, and as much booty as their packhorses can carry. It's the ones who're stuck here I worry about."
The Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant was a man of medium height, sharp-featured, with a swordsman's wrists and a bowman's broad shoulders, his cropped hair and chin-beard brown and his eyes an unremarkable greenish hazel… until you looked deeply into them. He turned from the window and looked at him across the antique plainness of the room, which could have been pre-Change, down to the broadloom carpet and Home Depot office furniture.
The alien surroundings made Sethaz inclined to snap; he restrained himself with a practiced effort of will, pushing away the image of the soldier hanging by his ankles over a slow hot fire.
Walker was a little independent minded… but then, with slow communications, you didn't want a general who referred all his decisions to headquarters, either. His family had been among the first in the Bitterroot country to accept the Dictations, and they had prospered mightily.
And since the…
Since the old Prophet died, Sethaz thought, his mind shying away from the memory of that day. Since my stepfather's lifestream rejoined the Ascended Hierarchy.
… Since then he'd been more than properly respectful. There was even a little fear in the bony face with its close-cropped head and tuft of chin-beard, worn in imitation of Sethaz' own. And a film of sweat on his forehead, but it was summer and the man wore armor and padding.
"Oh Heir of Sanat Kumara-"
The Prophet made an impatient gesture. Walker shrugged and went on more naturally:
"The damned Mormons just aren't giving up, lord Prophet. We've beaten their field armies and formally speaking we occupy everything north of Salt Lake City, but we're getting constant harassment from guerillas and the remnants of their armies lurking in the mountains and deserts. We don't dare split our troops up into small enough parcels to plant a garrison in every hamlet, we'd get eaten alive in little pieces if we did. But their civilians are the guerillas' source of food, shelter and information. Our lines of communication are longer than I like, too."
"Granted," Sethaz said. "But the population here are a potentially valuable resource, far too valuable to kill off for the sake of mere convenience. As it is the Church's dominions include too much unpeopled wilderness, without creating more here. The so-called Saints add another million to our population, which about doubles it, and more than that to our cropland and weapons production. With them, we can really get the breeding program going too, the more so as they kept such careful records. Much easier to identify subaverage mentalities, the mark of the Nephilim's soulless minions, and set them aside to reconcentrate the strain in service to True Men."
"But I'm losing troops to pinpricks every day!" Walker cried. "And lord Prophet, we can't keep our men away from their homes and ranches forever. We can't keep the Sword of the Prophet concentrated here forever either, they're our full-time cadre and best striking force. We must-"
He halted, flushing in alarm, and carefully keeping his hand from going to the hilt of his shete in a reflex born of sudden fear. Sethaz smiled inwardly, keeping his face grave.
" Must is not a word used to the Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant," he said softly. "I am the viceroy of the Ascended Masters and the Secret Hierarchy."
The General started to drop to his knees, then froze at the Prophet's gesture.
"You're an intelligent man, brother Walker," Sethaz said, almost genially. "You know the standard tactics for counterinsurgency work. And we do have a lot more cavalry than they do; it's why we beat them, after all. Take hostages. For that matter, the ones we've shipped East as slaves can double as hostages; make plain that their safety depends on the obedience of their relatives. Patrol vigorously, use your scouts, use our spies and collaborators and informers, chase every group of bandit rabble into the ground; and by all means, crucify any village that can be shown to be supporting the enemy. Except for the children. In those cases, we'll transfer them East to be raised in the Church. Many of our best and fiercest come from the Houses of Refuge."
"I thought… lord Prophet, we could sequester all the food supplies, and the seed corn, and dole them out in strictly rationed allotments. That would help with our own logistics, too. Administratively complex, but worth it, if you'll authorize me."
Sethaz stepped forward and slapped the older man on one armored shoulder.
"See? The Ascended Ones will speak truth to your soul, if only you open yourself to the Dictations! We have the mobility and striking power-use it, and the last of the bandit gangs will be dead, or gelded and working in the salvage teams by this time next year."
"I'll begin at once, my lord. Although altogether too many of them are escaping over the border with Boise, as well. Could we induce the new ruler there to seal the frontier?"
"Not yet. That is a delicate situation, one which needs careful nurturing. We cannot afford to fight Boise seriously. Yet."