by B. V. Larson
Winslade frowned at him. “What do you mean? It’s time you two began talking. What are you doing here, bothering me? I’ve got a battle to lose in the morning, if you don’t mind.”
I spilled my guts then. I told him all about Gytha, the way the Blood Worlders were seeing this fight, and all the rest of it.
By the end, his mouth was hanging open slightly. It did me a world of good to see that.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” he exclaimed, beginning to pace around the room.
He made agitated gestures, so much so that his turret began tracing his movements instead of ours.
“I can’t believe this!” he said at last, spinning around to face me.
I sat in my chair, deadly still.
“I’m going to have to leave you out of the fight tomorrow, McGill,” he said. “You can see that, can’t you? If you’re not there, the Blood Worlders won’t be rooting for you.”
“I don’t know if that will work,” I told him honestly. “They see me as their future ruler. The one they’re willing to lay down their lives to follow into battle. If I don’t show up—I don’t know.”
“You can’t show up, because you can’t win—but you can’t be seen to lose, either! Damn! Why do you always make such a mess of things?”
“I don’t rightly know, sir. My momma always said my teachers asked her that exact question on every back-to-school night. Every single one.”
“I’m out of options,” he said, fuming. “I’m going to have to kill you, and televise your corpse. We’ll make up some reason as to why you’ve been deposed. Something disgraceful will do nicely—”
As he spoke, he went over to his desk, snatched up his pistol and aimed it at me. He stepped around the desk again to get a point-blank shot.
One thing I’ve been gifted with, being a well-grown man of two meters in height, is an amazing length of bone. My feet, for example, always surprised people. When they sat in a booth at a restaurant, it was almost certain they’d kick me, or I’d kick them—I was just too damned lanky to fit into places made for normal folks.
So it came almost naturally to me to relax my long legs and shove a size fourteen boot into Winslade’s path. He was walking and talking so fast, he never saw it. I guess he was too focused on burning a hole into my skull with his laser pistol.
Going down in a heap, he scrambled to get up—but that’s when things went totally wrong for him.
His turret, which had been following him around the room with heightened interest, had finally decided it had had enough.
Making a rattling sound, it pumped a good fifty rounds into him. He spun around, flopped onto his back and gargled.
Graves and I got up out of our chairs carefully. We stooped over the steaming corpse.
“He doesn’t smell too good,” I commented.
Graves released a rumbling laugh. “That was the funniest damned thing I’ve ever seen, McGill. Did you really plan that?”
I shrugged. “Improvised, more like.”
“What are we going to do now?”
Frowning, I shook my head. “I’m not sure, Primus. I think I should hit the hay and sleep on it.”
Graves touched the top of the turret gently, turning it off.
“You do that,” he told me, rumbling with laughter again.
-51-
After a good night’s sleep I found myself refreshed in the morning. I’d taken a trip to Blue Deck late last night to get my shoulder fixed, but other than a patch of itchy nu-skin, I was right as rain.
At breakfast, I left my unit and sat among the officers. That was unusual for me. I generally stayed with my men on the morning before a battle.
“McGill?” Winslade asked in a tone that indicated disbelief on his part. “What gall you have… Do you know I just got revived an hour ago?”
“There’s more than one way to get a good night’s sleep, Primus,” I said in a cheery tone. “Sorry about yesterday, sir. My feet just get in the way sometimes. It’s an awful habit of mine, sprawling like that.”
He stared at me like he was a cat eyeing a flea. Getting up from his top table, where he’d been sitting with a load of other primus-level brass—all ten of them—he came over to my table.
Unconcerned, I shoveled food into my face. That was one good reason to eat in the snooty officers’ mess. The food tasted better. They got omelets made to order, and fresh fruit in three different varieties every morning.
“You know, I’ve got half a mind to have you arrested,” Winslade said. “I can do that, you know. Deech is serving with Armel, leaving me officially in charge of Varus.”
“She’s over there ratting us out, I’m sure of that,” I agreed. “Sit down, take a load off.”
If he’d meant to intimidate me, he’d failed. We both knew it.
Maybe it was the fact he couldn’t really afford to arrest me or shoot me on the spot. We were dropping back to the pit in around an hour, and I had fans down on Blood World. They wanted to see me. Apparently, I had an avid following.
“McGill,” Winslade said, “don’t speak of that humiliation with the turret, and I won’t launch any reprisals against you. Deal?”
“Uh…” I looked up in surprise. I hadn’t thought of him wanting to keep it a secret, even though in retrospect, it was obvious he’d want to do so.
The trouble was, I’d already shown the vid around. I’d been running my body-cams, and a few of them had caught all the action. Kivi had already cooked up a repeating loop of Winslade’s riddled corpse doing what looked like an infinite series of summersaults. My unit had laughed until tears ran.
Winslade’s face began to narrow at my hesitation, so I spoke up quickly.
“Got it, sir. I guess I’d already forgotten about it. Hell, why would I want to admit to endangering the life of a superior officer? That’s no way for a man to get ahead in rank.”
That was the sort of thing Winslade would have thought to say, so it convinced him.
He nodded and relaxed, sitting back and poking at his omelet with a fork. It was one of those fancy jobs full of spinach and sprouts and the like. No wonder he was so skinny.
“Good to hear,” Winslade said. “I’ve got a plan for today’s activities. Do you want to hear it?”
“Hmm…” I wasn’t really interested, but I’m always willing to make conversation.
“First off, you won’t be dropping with us. You’ll be dropping with Germanica.”
I blinked in confusion. “What, sir?”
“That’s right. You’re marching with them today. These Blood World yokels won’t know the difference. As long as they see you on the winning side, they’ll be pleased enough.”
My eyes narrowed at him, and I shook my head. “But sir? How can I drop from their ship? It’s orbiting on the far side of the planet.”
“Oh damn!” Winslade said, slapping a hand to his forehead dramatically. “How could I have forgotten?”
He made such a face of confusion and anguish that I was sucked in for a moment—but only for a moment.
Some people say I’m slow on the uptake. Not in a physical reflex sort of way, but in a complex concept sort of way. But in this case, I was able to do the math fast and my hands leapt across the table for his skinny neck.
They made it there, too. I grabbed him, and I throttled him— but the beamer he had in his other hand—the one under the table—was already squeezing the trigger.
A hissing, burning sound ripped the air and my guts blew out. They went all over the mess hall. Men jumped to their feet cursing and dancing out of the way.
Squeezing still, I tried to finish old Winslade before I died—but I failed. I’ll forever feel the disappointment.
My head slumped down, and I made gargling sounds. My fingers began to go limp, and Winslade pried them loose one by one. He gasped and choked.
That was the last thing I remembered hearing aboard Nostrum that fine morning.
* * *
I returned to life aboard Actiu
m, Germanica’s transport. This happened right away, but to me it seemed to be an eternity later. Time is funny when you’re dead.
“Off the table McGill—no violence, please.”
The Germanica bio-people watched me warily. They stepped back—well back—when I got up into a sitting position.
“That was dirty pool,” I said, releasing a low laugh that sent me into a coughing fit.
One of the women handed me a squirt bottle of water and danced back. I sprayed myself off and leered at them. One was thin, and the other was kind of chunky.
To me, that seemed odd. People rarely gained weight in Legion Varus. To do so was to invite a recycle from your CO.
“What’s got you two so nervous?” I asked.
“Let’s just say you have a certain reputation,” the chunky one said.
“All good I hope?”
The thin one blew a puff of air through her lips, relaxing. “You don’t look like you’re going to murder anyone. You’re a good grow. Get yourself cleaned up and report to Deech.”
“Where is she?”
“Gold Deck, of course.”
Shrugging, I climbed off the gurney and moved toward the uniform locker.
“What are you doing, Centurion?”
“Uh… getting dressed?”’
“The shower is right there. Don’t get slime into one of our uniforms—it’s disgusting.”
Surprised, I turned in the direction she was pointing. They did indeed have a shower installed just a few steps away. I climbed in, blasted off the sticky goo and felt a lot better when I pulled on a uniform a few minutes later. These Germanica pukes had a good idea there. It seemed so… civilized. I wondered if I could talk the Varus bios into adding a shower stall on Nostrum.
“Thanks for the revive, ladies. If either of you are looking for a date later tonight, let me know.”
They looked startled and tittered a little. Apparently, they hadn’t heard everything about me.
Thinking about that on my way up to Gold Deck, I smiled. The day might not be a total loss after all.
Internally, I was pretty steamed of course. Winslade had shanked me pure and simple. It was downright embarrassing for a man such as myself. I should have seen it coming.
His idea had seemed like a good one, too. I’d come up with zip after my full night’s sleep. I’d been kind of hoping something would jump out at me this morning.
And it had—just not in quite the way I’d figured.
-52-
Gold Deck on Actium was just like Gold Deck on Nostrum. If anything, the officers up here were even stuffier.
“James McGill…” Armel said as I walked in unannounced on a strategy session. “How good of you to crash our party.”
“McGill,” Deech said, jerking a thumb back toward the door. “Out. We’re planning our attack.”
“No, no!” Armel exclaimed. “Don’t send our hero packing! Come back. Witness the seeds of destruction. Legion Varus is doomed, and it’s only fitting you should know the nature of her overdue demise.”
I wavered for a second, but then Deech nodded. I walked up to the table they all huddled and stared at a holographic map.
As usual, Germanica had the best. They always had the good stuff, the most expensive gear the Galactics allowed humanity to purchase.
The holotable, accordingly, was spotless and vibrant. It had all kinds of automated icons and scripts you could activate.
And the graphics? I thought I was looking at the real thing.
“Looky there!” I said, pointing. “Those Varus lifters are perfect. Right down to the wolf’s head emblem on the side.”
Deech set her mouth into a grim line and gave me the death-stare. Any girlfriend I’d ever dated could have told her I was immune to that.
“Can you make the troops get out and deploy?” I asked.
My questions seemed to make Armel happy even as they upset Deech. He grinned and twiddled fingers near the Varus side of the table.
“Certainly,” he said, and sure enough, troops poured out of the lifters.
“Hot damn,” I said. “How come we don’t have tech like this on Nostrum?”
“It’s a waste of funds,” Deech said with a sniff.
“Look close, McGill,” Armel said. “Maybe you can see yourself if we zoom in a little more…”
Hunching over, I stuck my face into the map, drinking it in. This was better than the best gaming rigs.
A few of the Germanica brass snickered—but I didn’t care.
“Armel, please,” Deech said. “Let’s stop fooling around and finalize the plan. We’ve got less than an hour before the lifters drop.”
“Oh, but my captive lady, we’ve already done so.”
At the mention of her being a captive, Deech frowned at him and crossed her arms. I could tell she wasn’t enjoying her stay aboard Actium as much as I was.
“Look here,” Armel continued. He made a flourish over the map, and it accelerated in time.
Both sides exited the lifters in good order. Varus was committed to the field faster, it looked like. I thought that part of the simulation was accurate. We knew how to hustle.
But when both groups formed up into lines, the Varus units looked more ragged. They advanced sooner, before all their heavy equipment was even out on the LZ.
“An early assault?” Deech asked. “You think Winslade will try that?”
“It fits Varus behavioral profiles. Light troops probe almost immediately. They hope to find the enemy off-balance. They search for early intel in order to take advantage of any weakness—it’s a very aggressive strategy.”
“A damned good one, too,” I tossed in, but they both ignored me.
“Now watch,” Armel said. “We’ve anticipated them. We catch the scouts with a surge of heavies—they’re meeting now.”
The timescale was greatly increased. Each second was a minute of time on the simulated battlefield.
The Varus lights met the Germanica heavies and were repelled with catastrophic losses.
I watched transfixed as the Varus troops fell back to their lines, beaten. I had to admit, we did tend to get a bloody nose early-on.
“The enemy has been admonished, but not yet beaten,” Armel said. “With deliberate stratagems, we move in for the main struggle.”
While the Varus troops circled the wagons and dug in, Germanica advanced slowly. Their light troops crept up on the walls of the crater to find good sniping positions. Their main body of heavies and artillery advanced in the center.
About two minutes—two simulated hours into the struggle, the battle was joined for real. A preponderance of gear and planning allowed Germanica to wear down the Varus troops.
It was bloody on both sides, but Varus was outgunned and outmaneuvered. Germanica was shown mopping up the broken Varus troops a simulated hour later.
“What do you think?” Armel asked us with his eyes alight. “Was it not glorious? I’ve watched it countless times—even before we set sail for this godforsaken rock.”
“It could work out that way,” Deech said. “It fits the profiles. Your plan is a good one.”
“No it’s not,” I said loudly. “It sucks.”
Armel spun around on one heel. He clasped his hands in front of himself and eyed me with displeasure.
“Ah, the master speaks—no-no!” this last he said to Deech, who’d clearly been about to yell at me. “Don’t reprimand this wizard. This prophet. This man of visions. Tell us, Nostradamus, where have we gone wrong? I must hear your concerns.”
I waved a big hand across the field, making the landscape shiver as it passed through it.
“Just about everything. You clearly programmed the simulator to examine typical Varus behavior and extrapolate—but that’s a flawed premise.”
They looked at me curiously.
“Please, do go on,” Armel said.
“I will, because Germanica needs to win today. Winslade isn’t Deech, or Drusus. He’s much more cautious.
He wouldn’t throw out an early attack with half his light troopers. Not against Germanica.”
For the first time, Armel looked uncertain. “You don’t think he’ll follow the same playbook?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t.”
“But it doesn’t matter!” Deech said at last. “It doesn’t make any difference, not really. This isn’t a real contest, it’s a setup. Winslade knows he’s supposed to lose. He’ll do that, if only to enrich himself.”
“Ah!” I said, imitating Armel in my mannerism. “At last, you’ve set your finger upon the real problem: Winslade isn’t on our side. He has no intention of letting Germanica win this contract.”
They all had their mouths open now. Squinty eyes, slack jaws… I’d seen these expressions often when I really got on a roll.
“All right, McGill,” Armel said, making a pffing sound at me. “I’ll give you your pleasure. Why would Winslade attempt to win? Has he been bought off? Is he so angry with your regular abuses that he desires revenge in a blinded fury?”
“Nope. The trouble is… he’s not Winslade.”
That dumbfounded them.
“He’s Claver,” I said. “I realized it once I grabbed him—when I saw his expression in the mess hall. It wasn’t the sort of rat-look Winslade would give me. It was Claver’s face, being masked by one of his projection boxes.”
“You are mad,” Armel said quietly.
“I wish I was. That would make today an easier day—but I’m not. You see, I’ve grabbed Winslade by the throat, and Claver too. They aren’t the same. Winslade, he’s a skinny fellow. All strings and bone. My fingers and thumb can almost touch when I throttle him, when I squeeze hard enough.”
They were staring now with a mix of amazement and worry. No one said a word. Not even the staffers laughed.
“This man—he was big in the throat. He didn’t look that way due to the projection box, but he was disguised—I’m sure of it. As I died today, I had a few seconds to think: who might be wearing a projection box, have cause to pretend he was Winslade, and who possessed a fat neck?”
“Claver…” Deech said, her eyes unfocussed and searching nothing.
