Seeds–

Save for the arrhythmic clanging of hammers on metal spikes, the railroad crew worked in silence. They didn�t sing as they worked. A propaganda film crew had shot some footage of them once, but the musical number had been performed by traitors dressed up for the day. Now the Southern cities knew just how happy and well fed were the prisoners of war who toiled in the sun of the conquered plains.

Umat paused for a moment, closed his eyes and relished the shade of the boxcar. The guard would be along soon to prod him with the rifle barrel and insult him. It didn�t matter, he could feel the rain on his face. It fell in big warm drops. He smeared the liquid over his brow, then opened his eyes and stared at his fingers. They were red.

On the boxcar roof, both autogunners were slumped over their weapons, ragged exit wounds in their uniforms. There was a commotion on the other side of the railroad truck, the sound of gunfire. The guard who had escorted Umat back from the work detail was confused, looking around for someone to give him an order and stumbling closer to his prisoner.

Umat had been sent for more spikes to drive into the railroad sleepers. There was a bucket full of them in front of him. He dipped down, grabbed one and whirled on the guard. The spike buried deep in the Southerner�s chest. Umat watched the surprised expression with satisfaction before letting the soldier collapse.

An armed man, in a uniform Umat didn�t recognise, rounded the boxcar. Another came round the steam engine at the front of the service train. Umat raised his hands to show that he was unarmed and chained. The soldiers advanced on him. The one who had come around the boxcar lowered his gun and dug a small book out of a pocket. �We are here to free you.� He pronounced slowly.

�My thanks.�

The soldier flipped back a few pages, read something and smiled. �I speak Overall.� Umat announced. The soldier nodded, he understood the traders� language. �Do you?�

�Not with brilliance. But enough.�

Seeds–

One of the monoplanes had buzzed upstream earlier, low and full throttle. They had a long time to ponder the meaning of its transit whilst waiting for the next plane.

The big biplane sailed upriver at a much more leisurely pace. It couldn�t really travel any other way. Again the crew waved to the occupants of the small paddle boat as they passed.

�Do you think the other two are coming?� Marra asked.

�No.� Dack looked downstream. There was just the hint of smoke blowing into the gorge. �It will be dark soon.�

Marra piloted the boat through the rest of the minefield. When they were certain they had cleared it, Morn took a lighter from his pile of gifts and set fire to the map. He flapped it so the ashes were dispersed.

The smoke was thicker now. The sun disappeared behind hills and it was dark enough to move. Morn and Dack had oars at each side of the boat and Marra another at the rear. They let the current drive them, intervening with the oars if necessary.

They emerged from the gorge into a valley lit by fires. Ahead on the eastern bank the forest burned uncontrolled whilst figures rushed around the fires on the western bank. The corrals of logs had been smashed by some impact and fragments of wood were being caught by the current and drawn downstream.

The boat navigated into the stream of flotsam. No-one on shore was paying the river the slightest attention, so they rested at their posts and viewed the devastation as it passed them by.

Today saw the first frost of the year, it’s gone from Indian Summer to early winter in the space of a week.

Seeds-

�Three�s gone.� The tailgunner announced.

The pride of the Air Army had been torn apart by obsolete planes. Even with the element of surprise, they shouldn�t have been able to inflict so much damage. Mirl throttled up, he was going to survive this encounter and return to flatten the forest and destroy all the hidden bases. He just had to turn the wing around and head back, the damage wasn�t that extensive.

There was a shape below, on the water or just above, a crude cross decorated in yellows and greens with creatures dancing across its wings. A broken yellow line rose from the front of the cross, then another two from the middle. �Oh no.�

Each hit drew a hollow clang, like hailstones hitting a ferrous roof. Isolated thuds became a drumbeat counter-pointed by shrieks and whistles of broken pressure lines. The oil pressure gauge for engine two dropped to zero. Mirl pulled back the throttle and shut the engine down. �Two is on fire!� his co-pilot announced, flicking the switch for the extinguishers.

They could still make it on five engines. �Someone get a shot at that thing!� Mirl shouted into the remote caller. The oil pressure on engine four began to drop. Mirl cut the fuel supply. There was no response to his order.

The bullets stopped coming, but it was far beyond too late. There was smoke in the cabin and the caller system didn�t work any more. There was still enough of the control system connected for Mirl and his co-pilot to fight with and keep the plane in the air. They were turning, but far too slowly. Every count took them further and further away from their base. If they crashed into the forest they might survive, but that would leave them to dodge the Hidden Army.

The treetops were drawing closer. The ground wasn�t rising, so they must be falling. It was so hard to get any sensation of their general direction over the shaking and churning of the damaged plane. If the wing went into the branches nose down it would cartwheel and break up. Mirl pulled back on the stick and powered down the engines and the plane sank into the green canopy.

Seeds–

The shockwave sank one of the log tugs and disintegrated the small biplane that had been closing on wing three. It bowled over the spectators who had lined the bank and shook the wooden buildings. A tear drop of burning fuel spread over the water and into the forest.

Upstream, the large biplane was unaffected. Skimming low over the water it was rapidly closing to a range where the autoguns on board could be used. One by one they opened fire on the remaining wing, tracers arcing through the air and cutting through the big, slow plane.

One of the wing�s engines caught fire. It stopped turning and the flames were extinguished. Another engine began pouring out black smoke. A mist of fluid was coming from the bottom of the plane. It tried to climb, but was having obvious problems.

One by one, the biplane�s guns stopped firing as the wing disappeared from their view. Even wounded, the wing could fly faster than the biplane, so they didn�t try to follow it and turned their attentions to the logging camp on the river shore. They eagerly poured fire into buildings and strafed fleeing loggers. They had waited many seasons for the opportunity to fight back and would be ashamed if they returned with any ammunition left.