by Glen Cook
“Nearly two thousand, sir. Here, sir.” The Marine pulled a chair for Max.
“But . . . ” He had scanned the faces of his tablemates. His jaw refused to continue working.
A few of them he knew personally. The Chief of Staff Navy and the Director of Naval Intelligence he recognized from the holonetnews.
Max recognized them too. She leaned and whispered, “Who the hell are you really, Walter?” She was so awed she could not look at the high brass.
Perchevski stared at his place setting, just as awed. “I’m starting to wonder myself.”
“Thomas?”
Only one man alive insisted on calling him by that name. Perchevski forced his gaze to rise and meet that of his boss. “Sir?” He flicked a sideways glance at Mouse, who was eyeing Max appreciatively while whispering to his own ladyfriend.
“How are you doing, Max?” Mouse asked.
“You too, Yamamoto?”
“Thomas, the CSN and DNI want to be introduced.”
“Yes sir.” He evaded Admiral Beckhart’s eyes by fixing his gaze on the one seat still vacant. He moved around to shake hands with the brass while Beckhart murmured the introductions.
“This is the man,” Beckhart said. “He made it all go.”
“Congratulations, Commander,” the CSN told Perchevski. “And thank you. I understand you’ll receive the Swords and Diamonds. Not to mention the prize.”
Perchevski could not conceal his bewilderment.
They’ve got to be talking about the operation, he thought. Swords and Diamonds to the Lunar Cross, right? More chest hardware. With another medal and fifty pfenning he could buy a cheap cup of soy-coffee. Or pay half a Conmark without.
“Thank you, sir. I’d rather have my vacation, sir.”
His boldness startled him even more than did his bitterness.
The DNI peered at Beckhart. “Up to your tricks with the troops, Admiral?”
“Ma’am?”
Perchevski grinned. The mission was worth it after all, just to get here and see that look on Beckhart’s face.
“This man obviously doesn’t have the faintest damn notion of what he’s doing here.”
Perchevski threw oil on the flames by nodding behind his boss’s back.
He entered his commander’s presence only rarely, which was just as well. The Admiral brought out the contrariness in him.
“It’ll be clear soon enough,” Beckhart said. “I just thought it would be a nice surprise. Go back to your friend, Thomas. I see she knows Mouse.”
As Perchevski departed, he heard the DNI snap, “And see that they get some time off. The whole human race can’t keep your pace.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Perchevski winced. He would get time, all right. And he would pay for it. Beckhart would get it back with interest.
“What was that about?” Max asked. “You looked like they were talking about the firing squad.”
“They’re going to give me a medal. There’s something about medals . . . They just don’t seem adequate.”
“For surviving a virus?” She wore a sarcastic grin.
The high brass fell silent. People began to rise. Mouse abandoned the finger game he had been playing with his companion. Perchevski turned. “Jupp!”
Von Drachau looked old and haggard. His face had grown pasty since last they had met. “Hi, Tom.” He greeted no one else at the moment.
The holograms faded. Perchevski spied the news crews and cameras they had concealed. “I begin to understand,” he muttered.
“What?” Max asked.
“Lady, you’re about to see the full might of the Luna Command propaganda apparat in action.”
Von Drachau dropped into the empty chair. “Mouse,” he said by way of greeting. “Tom, you seen Horst-Johann?”
“Sorry, Jupp. I haven’t had a chance,” Perchevski replied. “Was it bad?”
“From hunger. And they drag me down here without a chance to . . . ” He considered the seniority of the rest of his tablemates, closed his eyes, leaned back.
“Who’s he?” Max whispered.
"Jupp von Drachau. We were classmates in Academy.”
“Was he in on the same thing you were?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
Navy stewards began serving dinner. It was a smorgasbord sort of meal, with the diners offered a chance to select from trays bearing bits and pieces from different Confederation worlds.
“Whatever you do, don’t miss the January wine,” Perchevski told Max. “They always let you have a little at these things.”
“Thought you’d never been here before.”
“Mouse has.”
“Mouse?”
“Yamamoto.”
“Oh? You know him too?”
“We were classmates too.”
The holo cameras started whining. They faded behind a new holo scene.
This one was no animation. It was a speeded recording of events that had taken place inside a warship’s situation-display tank.
Green friendly blips were approaching a huge chunk of asteroidal material circling a white dwarf sun. More white dwarves blazed in every direction. Perchevski could almost feel the heat, the smash of the solar winds.
“The Hell Stars,” he murmured. “That’s where it was.”
The asteroid began sparkling. Large red blips scuttled away behind the cover of a storm of red pinpoints.
Fast green blips raced after them.
The asteroid coruscated.
“Christ!” Perchevski said.
“What?”
“The place was an arsenal.”
Max did not understand. She was a Navy brat, but had not done Service herself. “What’s going on, Walter? Or whatever your name is.”
“That’s where Jupp was. It’s a display record of a battle.”
The Confederation warships began their assault. Jupp had had his share of firepower.
The guests munched complacently while watching the memory of the death of a Sangaree station.
The fast boats trying to carry children to safety did not outrun Navy’s blood-hungry hounds. Nor could the station’s defenses stand up to the pounding delivered by a heavy siege squadron. But the Sangaree fought like a cat cornered by dogs, and left scars on von Drachau’s command.
Here, there, Navy’s professionals commented on the action like detached spectators at a ball game. Perchevski glared at his plate.
Von Drachau, he noted, was less excited than he.
The steward kept bringing the courses. He had to remind Max to drink her wine. The vintages of January were Confederation’s finest and rarest.
The Sangaree persisted despite an overwhelming attack. It seemed impossible that they could have survived so long, let alone have continued fighting back.
Take no prisoners. That was the general order to all command grade officers who engaged Sangaree.
Christ, we’re bloodthirsty, Perchevski thought He looked around. His neighbors were enjoying the spectacle even though they had no idea what it was all about.
Mouse looked like he was poised on the brink of orgasm.
How that man could hate! The Marine assault boats went in in time for dessert.
Hand-held camera recordings replaced the sterile display replay. Marines stalked Sangaree and their hirelings through smoky, ruined corridors. The fighting was hand-to-hand and bitter.
The camera technicians seemed inordinately fond of torn corpses and shattered defensive installations.
An assault team blew its way through an airlock.
Beyond, running for kilometers, brightly lighted, lay the hugest artificial environment farm Perchevski had ever seen. A voice boomed, “Sithlac fields.” The holos expired. Lights came up. A spot trained on the DNI. She rose. “Ladies and gentlemen. Comrades in arms. That is what tonight is all about. An operation in the Hell Stars that destroyed the biggest stardust production facility we’ve ever located. The raid was carried out twelve days ago. Police for
ces throughout The Arm are rounding up the people who processed and sold the drug produced on that asteroid.”
She continued with a Navy-aggrandizing speech that Perchevski strove to ignore. Her theme was one of thank God for the Bureau’s vigilance and determination.
The CSN said the same things in other ways, and praised von Drachau and the fleet people who had acted on the information the Bureau had supplied.
The hows and whys of the intelligence coup got no play. The details could not be divulged for security reasons. The agents responsible would receive decorations.
“You’re a dip, eh?” Max whispered.
Perchevski shrugged. The near-worship in her face astounded him.
“I had a kid brother, Walter. He got hooked on stardust.”
“Oh.” He checked the time and was surprised to find that it had not been dragging after all.
The CSN insisted on presenting Captain von Drachau to Confederation’s billions. Jupp accepted his decorations reluctantly.
“Instant celebrity,” Perchevski mused. “Instant millionaire. And they won’t remember his name in six months.”
“Why’re you so sour?” Max demanded. “You ought to be kicking your heels. Look what you did.”
“I know what I did. I was there. Let’s talk about something else. What about that Polar Flight airmail set you’ve been promising me for the last two years?”
“I bet you get a ton of prize money. How much? Do you know yet?”
“No. I didn’t know about the raid till tonight.”
“You’ll be able to buy my whole shop.”
“Probably.” He had won prize money before. He was, by most standards, a wealthy man. He did not realize it. Money did not mean much to him. He could buy whatever he wanted when he wanted it, so economic problems never intruded on his life.
“Aren’t you excited?”
“No.”
“I am. When are we going to the Darkside digs?”
“I don’t know. I think they’re going to put me to work.” He had come to a decision. He was going home. To his birthworld. One last time. Maybe there, where not one person in a billion gave a damn about Sangaree, or the March of Ulant, or McGraw pirates, or anything else going on offworld, he could get away from himself.
And maybe he could refresh his memory of just what it was that had sent him into a life he so loathed now. Maybe he could relearn what the choices were.
The show for the benefit of the holonets wound down. Then came the private postmortem, when he and Mouse shook hands with the mighty and received their medals and prize-money estimates.
Max patiently waited it out.
“You should have gone home,” he told her when he finally broke away. “You can’t spend your life waiting for me.”
“I wanted to. I’m coming with you.” She squeezed his hand.
“Sonofabitch,” he said softly. His mood skyrocketed.
He had been firing on her for years. She had teased and led him on with smiles and gentle touches and had never given in. The occasional friendly date was as close as he had ever come.
Max made it a rewarding evening after all.
Eleven: 3048 AD
Operation Dragon, Danion
BenRabi groaned when he cracked an eye and saw the time. Noon already. He had wasted half his recreation day.
He flung himself out of bed and into the shower. Minutes later he was shuffling his Jerusalem papers, trying to find where he had left off.
The door buzzer whined. “Damn! I just got started. It’s open.”
The door slid aside. Jarl Kindervoort, Amy, and a half dozen unfamiliar Seiners grinned at him. They wore gaily colored period costumes. Moyshe laughed. “You look like refugees from a blood-and-blades epic.” Except for one little fellow way in the back, grimy-gruesome in Billy the Kid regalia. “What the hell? Is King Arthur aboard?”
“It’s recreation day, Moyshe,” Amy said, using that smile that melted him. “We decided to drag the old grizzly out of his den.”
How could he stay angry in the face of that smile? It was so damned disarming and warm. “I was going to work on the story.” She had been impressed by his being a published author. “Anyway, I haven’t got anything to wear.” He realized they were offering him something. He grew wary.
“Eh?” Kindervoort asked, cupping his ear. “What’s that? No matter, Moyshe. No time for it. Come on. We’re late for the party now.”
Amy chanted, “We’re late, we’re late, for a very important date . . . ”
Kindervoort caught Moyshe’s arm, pulled him through the doorway. He ignored benRabi’s protests as he led him along a passageway crowded with young Seiners in wild costumes, zigging and zagging through to the common room serving as the landsmen’s cafeteria, gymnasium, rec room, and lounge. It was a big place, but today Moyshe felt the walls pressing in. He had never seen it so crowded.
Most of the landsmen were there, lost among five times as many curious Seiners. The mixer had been going awhile. It had gotten organized. Not far from the door, at a long table where a dozen chess games were in progress, benRabi spied Mouse and the harem he had recruited.
“Where does he find the time?” he murmured.
Kindervoort and Amy herded him toward the table.
“Hey,” Mouse said. “You dug him out. You have to use explosives?”
“He gave up without a fight,” Kindervoort replied, laughter edging his voice. “Who should he play first?”
“Now wait a minute . . . ”
“Get serious, Moyshe,” Mouse snapped. “You’re going to go Roman candle freaker if you stay locked up. Come on out and say in to the world. Go on down there and beat the guy at the end of the table.”
There was a tightness around the corners of Mouse’s eyes. And an edge to his voice. Moyshe recognized a command. He moved down the table.
He did not like being pushed, but Mouse had a point. The mission was not dead. He would not get his job done sitting in his cabin.
He took the empty seat opposite the youth at the foot of the table, smiling wanly. His opponent had black. Moyshe opened with king’s pawn. Four moves. “Checkmate.” He could not believe it. Nobody fell for a fool’s mate.
“Good, Moyshe,” Amy said over his shoulder. “Tommy, wake up. Moyshe isn’t a subtle player. He’s more your kamikaze type.”
BenRabi turned. “Really?” She was leaning on the back of his chair. Skullface Kindervoort and his troops had vanished.
“From the games I’ve seen you play.”
Tommy’s mouth finally closed. The swiftness of his defeat had shattered him.
“Let’s say that’s just for practice,” Moyshe said. Tommy smiled weakly.
“Too generous of you,” he murmured. “I deserved what I got.”
BenRabi beat him again, easily, but took longer. Then he moved up the table, playing Seiner after Seiner, quickly, and one landsman whom he had beaten before. The Starfishers, while enthusiastic, were even less subtle than he. They played the game like checkers, going for a massacre. He won every match he played.
“Break time, Amy,” he said. “I’m getting calluses on my butt.”
“That was kind, what you did for Tommy,” she said as she guided him toward the refreshments line.
“What’s that?”
“Giving him a second chance. Playing badly on purpose.”
“I did that?” He was glad they had dragged him in. The noise, the excitement of new people . . . It was infectious.
“You did. I know something about the game. Tommy’s eager, but a little short. You know.” She tapped her temple. “He’s my second cousin. I feel sorry for him. Someday he’ll realize that he won’t ever beat anybody. It’ll really hit him. The only thing he can really do better than anybody is handle the animals.”
“Animals?” benRabi demanded incredulously.
“Sure. The zoo animals. In Twelve South, over by Sail Control. We’ve got the space for it. That’s one thing we don’t lack
. We’ve got botanical gardens and feral forests and football stadiums and all kinds of space wasters. Our ships are built to be lived in.”
“You remind me of somebody,” he mumbled, remembering Alyce. Alyce had had that same elfin nose, those same high cheekbones, that same slim, small-breasted body.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He tried to cover up by downing half a cup of steaming coffee. It scalded him. He sprayed the man in front of him. He mumbled apologies, felt small, and rubbed his lips and tongue.
Amy guided him away before he humiliated himself.
Swinging a hand to indicate the crowd, he said, “Reminds me of an Archaicist convention. For which read madhouse. Does this go on every week?”
“Except last week, when they were getting ready for you to come aboard. You should see it during sports season.”
“How do they find people to play those games? From what Mouse told me . . . ”
“People isn’t the problem. Every residential cube has teams. They can pick and choose their players. It’s a big thing, being a sports hero. Specially if you make one of the All-Star teams that play against the other harvestships. We’ve got every game you can imagine. You ever try nul-grav handball?”
“I’ve played. Maybe not by the same rules . . . Mouse and I play sometimes.”
“Who wins?”
“He does. Most of the time. I don’t have the killer instinct. I just play for fun.”
“He’s always dead serious, isn’t he? Completely determined. And yet he seems to enjoy life more than you.”
He scowled. “What is this?”
“Sorry. Where was I? Oh. There’s even an Olympics. And intership games whenever we’re in The Yards, and Fleet games while we’re harvesting.”
“The yards?”
“Enough said. That’s secret stuff.”
He did not press. But the agent in him red-tagged her words.
Amy led him to a cluster of tables under a banner proclaiming: COLLECTOR’S CORNER. It was quieter there. The people were older and less flashily dressed. Moyshe spied coins and stamps and other odds and ends of milemarks from Old Earth’s past. Coin and stamp collections had been popular, lightweight links with the motherworld during early space days, when mass and volume had been critically important.
