The Half-Made World by Felix Gilman Page A

Universal Education it had been printed. The virtues of the Republic were Democracy, Reason, Self-Government, Property, and Ordered Liberty. There was a brief homiletic chapter devoted to each.
    The Republic had arisen on what was then the edge of the world—a new idea. A loose alliance of freetowns and border states, that had become an Alliance, then a Federation, then, with the signing of the Charter on the banks of the Red Valley River, some forty years ago, a Republic. There was an illustration: several dozen dignified old men standing on the banks of a river, brandishing papers and pens, delivering speeches. The Charter itself appeared to be something intermediate between a code of public law and a sacred text, and in the illustration, a shaft of heavenly light fell upon it.
    There was a history of the Republic’s battles—glorious triumphs against both the armies of the Line and the pirates and mercenaries of the Gun. The Republic recognized no gods, no masters.
    On the fifth night out of Monroe Town, the men were all busy mending broken axles and torn canvas, and so Liv sat on a rock by the edge of camp and read alone. Bond, who’d stayed away on previous nights as she read to his men, swaggered and looked over her shoulder.
    “He’s dead,” Bond said. He pointed at an illustration of General Enver, rallying his troops at the battle of something-or-other.
    “Dead,” Bond added, as if he expected Liv to be astonished by this news. “Him and his Republic. They kept winning battles until they lost one, and that’s all there is to say. Dead and lost and forgotten.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    “Books are good for keeping accounts. You can’t learn much else from them. The world changes faster than words can make it stick.”
    “The past doesn’t change, Mr. Bond.”
    “They say the General was friends with Hillfolk. They say he had one for his adviser, a caster of stones, and that’s how he won his battles. I heard he married one, but I don’t believe that one, myself. Is any of that in there?”
    “It’s only a children’s book, Mr. Bond. It’s very simple.”
    “Huh. Books are all right for children, I suppose.”
    She snapped the book shut. “Well, thank you very much for your insights, Mr. Bond.”
    He flushed—he looked embarrassed.
    “Mr. Bond, I apologize—”
    “No offense, ma’am.”
    “The heat, Mr. Bond, and the lateness of the hour . . .”
    She felt oddly attached to the silly little book. In a way, it was something from home, and it made her sentimental.
    “They say,” Bond said, “I mean, I’ve heard it said.” His tone was unusually quiet and thoughtful. “I’ve heard some folks say that the War will go on until it chews up the whole world. The Republic tried to stop it, but look what happened to them. Wherever there’s oil, Line will thrive. Wherever there’s bad men, there’s Gun. Forever.”
    “A horrible thought.”
    “I’ve heard it said that the Folk know how to end it. They were here first and they know this world and what’s meant to be here and it stands to reason they could put Gun and Line back down, if they wanted to, don’t you think?”
    “Reason seems to have very little to do with it, Mr. Bond.”
    “A friend of mine used to say, if there’s hope for peace, it’s with them, not us.”
    “How shameful for us if that’s true!”
    “He died. Someone shot him. Doesn’t matter who. I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s something to think about, isn’t it? Something to think about. I’m not a stupid man, Doctor.”
    “Of course not, Mr. Bond.”

    Her husband, the late Professor of Natural History, Doctor Bernhardt Alverhuysen, had indeed resembled Mr. Bond in size—though beneath Bond’s fat there was muscle, and Bond was sunburned where Bernhardt had been pale, and he was physically deft and sure-footed where Bernhardt had been clumsy. In fact, there was only the faintest shadow of a resemblance. Why did Bond remind her so of Bernhardt?