“Well. . yes and no. We’ve kept up long sections of them, and joined more together after the War of the Eye; you can go from south of Ashland to the Okanagan in the north, or from Astoria on the Pacific to Spokane; where freight can’t go by water, it uses rail when it can, and pedal-carts are far and away the fastest way to move people or light goods. But we generally switch to foot or bicycle or hoof or wagon wheel when we’re in the lands where they haven’t been kept up. It takes a good deal of work to maintain railroads, so, but far less than making those cuttings and tunnels and the like.”
“This is a military application, really,” Fred said, a little shyly; it was getting easier to forget how young he was, but every now and then you could still tell. “Dad thought it would give us surprise, if we had an offensive campaign. . you know, for Reunification. We’d be able to move strike forces really fast.”
Artos gave him a considering look. “I’m thinking, Fred, that it’s odd your father didn’t do more of that. Offensive campaigns, that is. He was strong for reuniting all the old America, and he was an able man and a forceful one, and he certainly put enough effort into preparing for such. That army he built is a wonder and no mistake.”
“Team Four!” Fred called. “Remember to keep your interval. . ready. . go. . now.”
Then he looked down at the greasy rag in his hands. “I. . don’t know. I think. . I think the reason was that he didn’t want to fight other Americans. Not really, not all-out. Yeah, bandits, Rovers, scum like that, sure. But not whole. . whole countries like your people, or New Deseret, or, ummm. .”
He stopped and looked at Mathilda for an instant before glancing away.
“The PPA.”
Now, he was going to say even the PPA, sure and he was, Artos thought, nodding helpfully. Matti’s wincing a bit. For the Association was everyone’s boogeyman, until we had Corwin and the CUT to concern us. And at that, the Association today is not what it was in Norman’s time.
“I think he really expected to have the others join in freely as soon as he got Idaho really organized. But that took so long, and by then. . well, by then things had sort of set in other places, like concrete going hard. It ate at him, I know, and really disappointed him. And-” He stumbled and went on. “I think that’s one reason why so many younger officers were ready to back my broth. . to back Martin. They’d spent all their lives training for Reunification, and then it looked as if it wasn’t going to happen.”
Grimly: “Martin doesn’t mind fighting anyone. Everyone knew that, too.”
Artos nodded sympathetically. Though it wasn’t just that Martin Thurston was coldly ambitious, and ruthless in a way that made him equal even of Mathilda’s father. To a man like the elder Thurston it still was America. To those born after the Change, or too young to remember much of the old world, it was natural to think of those over the next river or mountain range as strangers, the more so if they followed different Gods or customs. And the Gods knew enough strange little enclaves and cults and tribelets had spawned in the last generation, crystallizing around someone with a strong will or vision. . or just luck, or all three.
Like my own mother, to be sure. Or my blood father. Or Matti’s parents.
The young man drew a deep breath. “Well, we’re ready for you, sir. . Your Majesty. Your Majesties, I should say.”
Artos looked over his shoulder. Epona was hitched behind one of the horse-drawn wagons on a leading rein, and not looking happy about it, but it would be work enough for the destriers to keep up with nothing on their backs. He strode forward and grabbed the lifting handle on the front right side of the next pedal-cart. Mathilda took the front left; that had the added advantage that each of them had the shield arm facing out. Edain was behind him, and Asgerd beside the bowman. Ignatius, and three of the Southsiders-Tuk and Samul and Rattlebones-were on the rear pair of cycles.
The assemblage thumped down on the rails; the deep rust of a generation already showed a glinting strip where it had been worn away to show the untouched metal. Left to itself a few more generations and this would just be a long mound with a ruddy streak in the soil; already it was far too weak to have borne the huge engines and loads of the ancient world. But it would serve this time; it would serve. .
Their gear was prepacked, and it was the work of a moment to lash it down. Garbh leapt up and curled to rest on Edain’s sleeping bag. The huge half-mastiff was a little plumper; even a dog could be a hero of the Battle of the Six Hills, and trade on it for many a rib or titbit.
“I swear that beast looks smug,” Mathilda said, smiling. “She’s going to ride at her leisure, most of the way!”
“Team Five!” Fred called. “Remember to keep your interval. . ready. . go. . now.”
Artos swung into the saddle of the bicycle. “Hup!” he called, letting his left foot bear his weight down on the pedal. Everyone else in the team did likewise. “Hup! Hup!”
Steel grated on steel; one wheel skidded amid Southsider curses not intelligible to anyone who hadn’t grown up with their little tribe in the Wild Lands of Illinois. Then the weight of the cart moved forward, slowly at first and then faster and faster. His long legs pushed at the soft steady resisting force. He’d pedaled carts before back home, but this wasn’t quite like the streamlined aluminum pods used in most of Montival for fast transport. The wind in his face was colder with the speed of their passage, but not too uncomfortable for any of them, accustomed as they were to hard labor of one type or another outdoors in all weathers.
Behind Mathilda, Asgerd blurted in a tone halfway between shock and exhilaration:
“This is as fast as skiing downhill! Faster than a galloping horse!”
“Not quite.” Edain grinned. “Still, it’s better than walking, eh? And no more effort.”
Better if you’re in a hurry, Artos thought. And to be sure, better than mud!
There was plenty of that to either side as they covered the stretch of open fields southward; doubtless in a month or so they’d be planted to grain or buckwheat or potatoes or timothy and clover, but right now they looked the sort of glutinous quasi bog that would suck the boots right off your feet or break a horse’s heart. Then they flashed into the woods, with dapples of shade running across their faces and blinking brightness in the intervals; it was colder where there was shade, and most of the ground was still snow-covered. Occasionally the framework would shake and sway as they hit a patch where some gravel had washed out below the ties or rails had bent a little in a storm, but mostly their passage was smooth.
The sugaring party they’d seen looked up from emptying buckets of wood or old-time galvanized metal into the tank on a sled, moving their spears or bows to stay in arm’s reach as they went from tree to sled and back. A black-and-white dog with them dashed in a circle and barked at Gharbh, who turned her head away in ladylike indifference, and a boy or girl of around seven called from the box of the sled, waving with the hand that didn’t hold the reins.
Artos waved back, and Asgerd called a greeting lost in the speed of their passage.
“My family has a fine stretch of sugar-woods,” she said. “They’re a little east and north of here. Nearer to New Sweden. It’s a good farm; my mother’s family held it before the land-taking. Good woods for timber and firewood and sugar, good pasture, good land for grain and spuds and flax, and fishing rights on a lake.”
“Your mother’s?” Edain asked.
“All her kin were killed by outlaw reivers before Erik the Strong came in the first Change Year. My father, Karl, was one of his followers. . joined him after the Change but far south of here, in a place called New Hampshire where he was a warrior who kept the peace. . a policeman, that was the word. . and he helped rescue her. There are six of us children-my brothers, Grettir, he’s twenty-four summers and just wed, Hauk and Erik, and me and then Brynhildr, she’s fifteen, and little Tora’s ten. Tora loves sugaring time. When we make candy by dropping the hot syrup from the boiler in the snow.”