And Gunsel was forced to admit that he was right.
Under the vicious Avionian sun, the day wore on tediously. Gunsel could not tell if the warriors were paying any attention to him or if Herbloc was translating his words correctly. At least there were no further outbursts of Cheereek laughter.
Gunsel called a break when the sun was at its zenith and the two men retreated into their landcar, where they could enjoy the vehicle's climate-control system. Herbloc immediately stretched out in the passenger seat and within seconds was snoring loudly. After a while Gunsel dozed off too. Neither awoke until the late hours of the afternoon. Alarmed, Gunsel rushed outside to find the five Cheereek right where they'd left them at noon time, dozing quietly on their haunches.
What was left of the afternoon, and well into the evening, was spent in the handling of real weapons, which included dry-firing and sighting. Gunsel realized the Cheereek really had paid very close attention to his demonstration. Apparently, Herbloc's translations had been excellent.
The actual range firing was disappointing. One major difficulty was that each shooter became highly distracted by the expended brass cartridges when they were ejected after firing. The Cheereek had an alarming tendency to throw the rifles down and go chasing after the shiny brass cartridges. And only when one of them sustained a minor wound—a bullet hole and the burn caused by a muzzle blast in his arm fringe—did they begin to settle down and practice better weapon safety.
Once the warriors realized the rifles could hurt, Gunsel stepped to a nearby bush and plucked a seedpod from a low-lying branch. He mounted it on one of the targets and returned to the firing line. Using the standing offhand position, he emptied a magazine into the pod, demolishing it in four seconds. The Cheereek rushed forward to inspect the damage. Gunsel did not need Herbloc to tell him the warriors were impressed with his shooting. They were beginning to get a picture of what the rifles could do to one of their kind. What neither man could know was that the five warriors thought them crazy to trade such wonderful weapons for a handful of their gut stones.
They broke for the night and practiced live-fire with the rifles through all the next day. At the end of that time Gunsel was convinced the Cheereek fully understood the principle of how gunpowder worked and how the rifles functioned, but of more than a thousand rounds each warrior had fired at a large target only fifty meters from the firing line, few scored a bull's-eye. Gunsel decided it was satisfactory if they just hit the target at that range. At twenty-five meters they were much better shots. Gunsel sighed. He could not teach the Cheereek proper trigger control, breathing, and proper firing posture; the standard firearms training he'd gotten from old books just would not work with them. He couldn't tell whether it was because their anatomy and physiology were so different from those of humans or they simply didn't have the necessary focus to keep from being distracted when the spent cartridges were ejected.
But after a week Gunsel pronounced the five warriors certified firearms instructors.
Equipped with a large bag of gizzard stones—their "pay" for teaching the five warriors how to shoot—the two men eagerly headed back to the Marquis de Rien.
"Boy-o, you did a capital job! Capital!" Herbloc saluted Gunsel with his flask and drank.
"Goddamnit, Doc, after a week with you in the hot sun, isn't it time you shared that rotgut with me?"
Herbloc handed the flask over. Gunsel drank and coughed. "Allah on an asteroid, Doc, that stuff is strong!" He coughed again and pounded his chest as the whiskey burned its way down into his stomach where it finally came to rest, a comfortable warm ball of liquid joy. "Whew!" Gunsel preferred beer, and he occasionally drank liquor, but he'd never had anything like that before. He drank again and handed the flask back. "What do you call this stuff, Doc?"
"Whiskey, my dear boy. All the better drinking establishments have it. When we get back to civilization I shall introduce you to a few such places."
"Not if it turns me into a drunk like you, you won't," Gunsel replied in an offhand manner. The artificer had decided soon into the long flight from Luna Station that he would not let Herbloc intimidate him with his superior education. He understood few of the literary allusions the scientist was fond of making, but he knew that when Herbloc quoted Shakespeare, he meant it as a putdown on someone. The other men on the Marquis de Rien knew that too and they hated Herbloc for it, but after a time Gunsel began to enjoy sparring with the scientist. And it did not take Herbloc long to discover that Gunsel was quick on the verbal draw. Grudgingly but respectfully, Herbloc became wary of the craftsman's devastating tongue. In time he actually came to enjoy the repartee.
"But Doc," Gunsel added, the whiskey making him expansive, "I've got to hand it to you. If whiskey makes you so damned good at what you do, Patch should find out what brand you like and give it to some of those other guys."
Chapter 12
As a young man Major General Alistair Cazombi had performed an act of such desperate heroism he had never been the same since.
During the Katusan Insurrection of 2425, as part of the disastrous retreat of Confederation forces from the high plateau country, his platoon had been surrounded on a rugged ridgeline above the Weejongboo River in Lagoda's southern province on St. Katusa. The Katusans had surprised the understrength Confederation task force sent to restore order and driven it back on the Weejongboo, where its commanders established a tenuous defensive perimeter.
Cazombi's company had been decimated in the fighting, and by the time they found themselves isolated on the ridge, they were down to thirty men who could fight. The Katusans, realizing Cazombi's position was vulnerable, seized the opportunity to break the Confederation defensive line at that point and repeatedly attacked him over the course of two days. On the morning of the second day a shell fragment had shattered Cazombi's spine, paralyzing him from the chest down. Lying behind cover, he continued to direct the defense of his position, killing several of the enemy with his personal weapon. That night, he ordered the survivors to abandon the position. Realizing it would be too difficult for them to carry him down the steep ridge without alerting the enemy, he ordered them to leave him behind. He requested that someone give him a fully charged weapon.
He had to threaten the company first sergeant to get him to obey the order to move out. Finally, as the handful of surviving soldiers stood about in the deepening darkness, reluctant to leave their commander, he grabbed the first sergeant's sleeve and pulled him close. "You try carrying me down that ridge, Top," he whispered, "and you'll make so much noise the bastards'll know you're leaving. Stay with me, and tomorrow at dawn they'll crack the line here and we're all dead. You get out quietly tonight, reach Battalion, let them know we've got a hole up here, and maybe they can plug it. Otherwise the brigade is going to get knocked out of this war."
The old first sergeant made as if to protest again. Then, swallowing hard, he nodded and repeated the order quietly to the rest of the men. They gathered up their weapons and slipped silently down the ridge. As each man passed the spot where the captain lay, they reached down and squeezed his hand. In seconds Cazombi was completely alone.
The freezing night dragged on forever. Several times Cazombi thought he'd passed out or dozed off. The pain from his wounds had subsided but he was completely immobile from the chest down and very weak from loss of blood. He had been left positioned so he could see down the slope to the river below. Toward morning a dense fog developed in the river bottom and crept up the ravines, giving the enemy excellent cover almost to the top of the ridge where Cazombi lay. He was able to repulse the initial probes until the sun was well over the horizon, but once the Katusan commanders realized only one position was firing on their men, they ordered a massive charge. Hundreds of screaming Katusan soldiers swarmed up the ridge.
Cazombi fired until his blaster's power pack was expended. He was fumbling for another when someone laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head slowly, apprehensively, expecting almost to see an angel re
ady to bear him off to paradise. What he saw was even better: his old first sergeant with what remained of the second battalion, only a hundred-odd men, but they were enough.
Two months later Cazombi was back on his feet. Not firmly, his mending back still weak, but standing nonetheless. He had been given a new company command. That was when the malcontents within the company began to call him "Cazombi the Zombie." It stuck. Those two nights on that ridge had done something to Alistair Cazombi. As the years passed and he rose in rank, he built a reputation as a cool, totally unflappable officer who thought things through quickly and then unerringly made the right decision. Commanders admired him because no job was too difficult for Cazombi and he never complained about even the most odious assignments, carrying them out with quiet efficiency. As a commander, his men loved him. He never applied more discipline than required and never asked anyone to do anything he wouldn't do or hadn't done himself.
Beyond an occasional shrug or a slightly raised eyebrow, Alistair Cazombi never showed emotion of any kind. Those who knew him well could judge his moods by those two gestures. "The Old Man gave a three-quarter eyebrow, so watch out! He's really pissed!" subordinates would joke. That is not to say he never felt emotion; he just never allowed it to surface. Asked how he remained so calm always, never demonstrating anger or passion, he replied evenly, "That all ran out of me a long time ago." He did have a sense of humor, though it was very dry. When making difficult decisions, ones that if wrong could get him into a lot of trouble, he would only shrug at warnings and say, "What're they going to do, ship me back to Katusa?"
Alistair Cazombi only wore two ribbons on his duty uniform. One was midnight-blue with silver diamonds, the Army Heroism Medal, the highest decoration for bravery the Confederation could bestow. That one was for his action on the windswept ridge above the Weejongboo River. The other was the Army Good Conduct Medal, earned as an enlisted man before he was accepted into Officer Candidate School. He would often remark of his enlisted service, "Kitchen police builds men. I know what it's like to clean out the mess hall grease trap. Did that in basic training on Arsenault. Didn't like it much."
Major General Alistair Cazombi raised his right eyebrow slightly but otherwise had no obvious reaction to the momentous information Admiral Hastings Sudbury, Chairman of the Combined Chiefs, Confederation Armed Forces, had just given him.
The information about the existence of Avionia had come as a big surprise, but a mild one, compared to what the admiral told him next. "These Marines of the, um, 34th FIST, er, Lima Company, third—maybe fourth, I don't remember—platoon, General, we're sending them because they have encountered an alien species before." He explained what had happened on Society 437.
General Cazombi only nodded. "Marines. Yes. Well, sir, Marines are excellent fighters. Very disciplined men. I can handle this job, sir." He had just moments ago been informed that the Combined Chiefs were sending him along on the Avionian mission. His role would be to represent the Combined Chiefs, ensure the Marines of the 34th FIST adhered to the strict rules of engagement that would apply on Avionia, and to make sure the Marines kept quiet about the whole thing.
Admiral Sudbury leaned back in his chair. "You know, Alistair, I've only been Chairman for six months, and we haven't really had much opportunity to talk."
"That is correct, sir."
"I mean, your periodic briefings are so—so—" He shrugged. "—so complete, I never have a chance to ask you any questions." He laughed.
General Cazombi said nothing. For two years he had been the C-1, the personnel officer for the Combined Chiefs. Only Admiral Sudbury, his deputy, a four-star army general, his intelligence officer, known as the C-2, and the Judge Advocate knew about Avionia and what was going on there. Quietly they had reviewed the records of several officers whom they might send along to monitor things, and all had agreed Cazombi was the man.
"One more thing," Admiral Sudbury said. "Someone else will accompany you. A cop."
Special Agent Thom Nast sat in the Attorney General's office studying the file she had just handed him. The wattles on the AG's neck turned a bright red as she watched him, remembering the meeting that had just concluded with the Confederation President. That goddamned half-breed bitch, Chang-Sturdevant, had virtually ordered her to dispatch an agent to the Avionian station to deal with the poaching. The AG had promised Val Carney her office would not interfere with the operation there, and it wouldn't. Nast couldn't trace his way to the men's room, much less any leads he might develop on those behind the poaching.
"You're going along with an army general, Whatshisname. It's in the file," she croaked. "He's going along to keep the Marines in check. They catch any of these guys," she continued, "you escort them directly to Darkside."
"No trial?" Nast asked as he read his instructions.
"Of course not!" the AG replied as if talking to an idiot. "We go with a public trial for these guys and it'll blow the whole Avionia operation. Even the President agrees the Confederation Constitution is suspended in this case." She pronounced the word "President" disdainfully.
Nast nodded. He was a meticulous investigator who always went by the book. He was cautious and thorough and often his superiors had criticized him as being slow and indecisive. But the thought of putting anyone in jail without due process, especially on a place like Darkside, where only prisoners serving life sentences were confined, troubled Special Agent Nast. And besides, poaching—criminal trespass under the Confederation Criminal Code—was a Class 6 felony that carried a maximum penalty of five years' confinement, not life, which is what the poachers would face if taken.
"Clean your desk out, Nast," the AG cackled, "you're going to be gone a long time on this one!"
"Special Agent Nast, thank you for coming on such short notice," Madam Chang-Sturdevant said, walking out from behind her desk and offering Nast her hand.
Nast had been shocked to receive a peremptory summons to meet with the Confederation President. He'd been packing his bags to depart for Avionia Station when the call came through.
"Let's sit down over here," Chang-Sturdevant said, gesturing to a low table and some comfortable chairs in one corner of her office. "Would you like some refreshment?"
"Thank you, ma'am, thank you very much. Perhaps a glass of effervescent tonic?" Nast carefully seated himself on the edge of one of the chairs, his knees primly together, hands in his lap.
"Relax." Chang-Sturdevant laughed. Nast leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs with an embarrassed smile.
A servo immaculately attired as a waiter rolled soundlessly across the room. "Might I ask the gentleman his pleasure, sir?" Nast was openly surprised by the servo's basso profundo voice.
Madam Chang-Sturdevant smiled and nodded at the servo. "That's Larry. I like a deep male voice," she said, "it gets me, right here." She patted her abdomen and laughed.
"Uh, Larry, could I have a Schwepp's tonic, please?"
"Very good, sir. Madam?"
"Same for me, Larry."
The servo began pouring the drinks. "Sir," it addressed Nast. "I thought I should inform you that the front of your trousers is slightly open."
Nast fumbled with his fly. "I came out in a hurry" he explained, his face turning red.
"I am sorry, sir," Larry said as it served Nast with his drink, "but I thought it best to advise you."
"Uh, thanks, Larry." Nast toasted the servo with his drink. He was beginning to think of Larry as a real person. The face actually looked human and its lips were perfectly synchronized with its words. The tuxedo-clad torso mounted on the serving cart was remarkably lifelike in its movements.
"Will there be anything else, Madam?" The servo inclined its head respectfully in Madam Chang-Sturdevant's direction. "Not for the present, Larry."
"I shall be available if you need anything," the servo said. It rolled silently into a niche in a far corner.
The two sipped their drinks for a moment. "You know where you are going and what you are to
do when you get there?" Chang-Sturdevant asked abruptly.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Now get this: you work directly for me from now on. I've had my personnel director reassign you from the Ministry of Justice to my personal security staff. You will have police powers extraordinary for the duration of this assignment. From now on your reports will be filed with me and you will receive your directions from me. You no longer work for the Attorney General. Is that clear?"
The news took a moment to sink in, and then Nast smiled slowly. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "Police powers extraordinary?"
"Yes. You will have the authority to arrest anyone, and if you deem such action appropriate, the authority to drop the case or any of the charges. Few law enforcement officers are ever granted such power—or responsibility. And, as you will be working for the President, directly, neither the AG nor any of her crooked cronies in the Congress will be able to interfere with your investigation.
"Don't worry about your career in the Ministry of Justice, Thom. The current AG is suffering from ill health. She's resigning soon." Chang-Sturdevant smiled. "When this operation is over and you return to the Ministry of Justice, I'm sure you'll find the atmosphere over there greatly changed. She thinks you're an idiot. I don't. Her replacement won't either, I guarantee you that."
Nast nodded but said nothing. He already knew what his superiors thought of him, but long ago he'd made up his mind not to compromise his methods to win praise.
It was that quality Chang-Sturdevant recognized in Nast from almost the moment she had opened his file. Quite by accident the Attorney General had picked the wrong man for the assignment. She smiled to herself, imagining the rage the old bitch would fly into when word came to her that the Confederation President had assigned her "bumbling fool" to her personal staff. The Attorney General would spend her last few days in office wondering if the idiot would accidentally stumble onto something incriminating.
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