"Yes,” agreed General Marcroft softly, his gaze on those around him, shifting his attention from one face to another. “I'm getting an impression. Which brings to mind one of the questions I wanted to ask while I was here."
Several aides and councilors swallowed and glanced nervously around, but then they swiveled their attention to the man seated before them, and it wasn't lost upon them that when he had arrived he sat before anyone else, as if he'd been the one who summoned them instead of the other way around.
Amaron held his temper, but it was difficult. “You have questions of us?” He shook his head. “I'm afraid, general, that things are different here than what you're used to.” He stared back at the man in the blending uniform and told him the way it was.
"We ask you questions, and you answer yes or no. That's the way it works here."
"Fine.” The general pulled out a fax sheet from a hidden breast pocket and opened it wide, stared at it a long moment, and then looked back up. “It says here my appointment to general's rank began 2230, three days ago. Yet General Talons was killed in an accident at 2200 hours three days ago, and we didn't receive word of it until 2250 hours.” He smiled with such a lukewarm air that several people stiffened. “How is it you have an intelligence apparat superior to our own? We don't like that, you know. Silhouettes are supposed to have the best.” He looked around, open-eyed. “Now it's evident we don't."
Sighs could be heard as certain fears remained unfounded.
He pointed into the waxing silence. “And another thing ... there are these lists of people you want picked up. We're Silhouettes, not a group of bounty hunters. If you want these people picked up, why don't you contact inter-corps police? What's wrong with those people? Do they slip up on you? Do you think they need to be replaced? And if that's what you want, and you think we're the people to do the job efficiently, why don't you come out and say so? Give us the authority, and we'll ship those silly clods out and have them transferred to battalion corps. If they're good for anything it's keeping a tune."
Smiles broke out as several councilors and their closest aides laughed. Amaron's scowl lightened until he chuckled.
"General,” said Amaron, gesturing to one of his assistants to fetch a tray of drinks. “I have an idea we're going to get along rather well."
General Marcroft straightened in his chair and fiddled self-consciously with his cravat. “I don't see why not. After all, we are part of the armed forces, and that puts the problems of social control where they belong, right in the laps of you people, and, uh, if I may, Mr. President?"
Amaron nodded graciously, his gaze meeting his colleagues around the room, all nodding with relief.
"Of course, general. Say whatever's on your mind. You're among friends."
"Well, sir, if you please then.” The general smiled widely as a drink slipped into his hand, and wider still when he saw how rare the drink was. He sipped cautiously before nodding his thanks.
"It's like this, sir. I know what problems you're having, and I'd like to help, but unless we're given the authority to act in the open...” He shrugged helplessly. “Well, we'll step on a lot of toes, and we'd need to be covered legally if we're to carry it off."
Amaron nodded judiciously. Prepared for this contingency he reached into a side panel of the desk, thumbed the code-release, and pulled from the compartment a sealed envelope he handed to the Silhouette General-in-Arms.
"Here you are, general, everything you require. Full authority to act anywhere in the human sector, covering seventeen planets and their outlying territories, which will enable your people to command the five new dreadnaught class series presently in orbit. Your entire complement will be over twenty-five thousand men."
General Marcroft's mouth fell open.
"I hope that satisfies you, general?” asked Amaron softly, chuckling under his breath, sharing the feeling with his other people that they'd got their man where they wanted him.
Marcroft stood, saluted, and then swallowed with difficulty. “I don't know how to thank you."
Amaron's smile was gracious. “You can thank me when this is behind us, and we may have the pleasure of promoting your current rank to Silhouette Admiral of the Fleet."
Again Marcroft shook the other's hand with warmth and companionship.
"Thank you, Mr. President,” he said under his breath, his eyes making sure the other understood what kind of a debt was now owed.
"You're more than welcome, my friend,” replied Amaron in turn, understanding the other's meaning.
Marcroft saluted again, turned on the spot, and made for the exit. He had a job to do, a list of traitor's names to work on, and a remarkable future ahead.
When the portal closed behind him, Amaron muttered, “Now there goes a man right after my own heart."
"Think he can do the job?” asked one of his cabinet.
"Him?” Amaron laughed and shook his head. “For his sake he better do the job right the first time, wouldn't you say so, Benedict?” He turned to the aide dressed in grey, who had stayed in the corner since General Marcroft arrived, and for an answer, he nodded shortly.
"Oh, yes. He'll do what we require, all right, and if he doesn't...” He smiled without the smallest show of warmth and lifted a compact attaché case. “Let's say he'll be in for the surprise of his life."
The conspirators laughed softly at first, and when they thought about it, they laughed a lot harder.
* * * *
Marcroft was met in the hallway by his own contingent of Silhouettes where he put a finger instantly to his mouth, silencing questions until they were safe in their own gravity car, and even then, at about a thousand feet, he refused to speak about the meeting.
When they hit ten thousand, Lieutenant Iaria came up to him, gestured for him to strip, which he did on the spot, and a large toweled cloth robe replaced his garments. Those she took with her into the back of the craft, where a small scanner lab had been assembled.
Ten minutes, twenty minutes, and it was going into thirty when his three-man logistics team seated beside him began to fidget. With relief they sighed as the lieutenant returned, but froze at the troubled look on her face.
Marcroft broke his silence. “Lieutenant, if you've something to say, now would be a pretty good time to do so."
"Sir, I'm not sure, but would you come with me please? I have something I want to show you."
Grumbling to himself he got up and was taken unaware when she fired a hypodermic syringe into his chest. He collapsed, the nerve drug taking him so fast he didn't have time to blink.
One of the logistics people started up, a palm photonic ready, but she put out a hand and finger-signaled for silence! Two of the crew came forward, picked up their commander, and hefted him back to the lab, the others following silently, some with deadly intent.
What they saw on the scanners when they laid him on the table soured them even more. It took her a good forty-three minutes using laser and magnetic probes, and then some surgery before she was finished.
An hour after that, General Marcroft awoke, feeling groggy, and had a drink put into his hand. He licked his lips and swallowed it.
"All right, Iaria, what was that all about?"
"Sir, they tampered with you."
He took a deep breath. “In what way?"
"Several different compounds that interact with one another, along with electronic scanner devices."
"I see."
She shook her head in disagreement. “No, sir, you don't. If we hadn't been prepared for this, and if General Talons hadn't spelled out the danger in his last message before his murder, those drugs would have turned you into a zombie, and you would never have had another thought of your own."
He looked around grimly. “And if I'd been able to fight it?"
"There were back-ups."
"Meaning?"
Her hesitance made Marcraft scowl.
"I want you to spell it out, lieutenant. I'm a big boy now, and I think I can take
it."
Flushing, she pursed her lips and told him what would have happened if he had fought the drugs that had been making him suggestible.
"You would have turned insane, and after that you would have died from heart failure."
"Wouldn't that have defeated their purpose?"
She shook her head. “Initially, no. You would have been insane. That wouldn't have changed, but your loyalty to the council and to the president would have become an obsession. Nothing would have stood in your way. No one would have been able to make themselves heard or their views known. You would have ended up murdering key personnel as soon as they seemed suspicious or questioning."
Marcroft stared at her. “So, now they know anyway."
But she surprised him and shook her head. “No, they don't."
"What do you mean?"
"I put everything they shot into you into a zero medium suspension. And right about now, I'd say their pet interrogator, Major Benedict, is reading his instruments and nodding his head and looking damn satisfied, because every one of his readings is telling him the tissues are absorbing the chemical inducements, and pretty soon they'll be able to contact you with a couple of test proposals. When you agree to them, they'll know they have you."
"The bastards!” one of the logistics team shouted uncontrollably. “And if it hadn't been for Talons warning—!” He restrained himself and sat down, ashamed of his outburst.
His colleague apologized. He was always like that. Even as a child he became emotional.
Marcroft pondered his position. A blue-belly they called him when he got his transfer orders in, forcing himself through his family connections for a billet with the Silhouettes. Talons was furious the other never bothered to take his tests, but after that grim affair at Meeriio, the satellite for the criminally insane, and succeeding to get only one hostage out of thirty-seven wounded, General Talons grudgingly awarded the young lieutenant with his first medallion.
He worked his way up the ranks, and every step of the way General Talons watched him, where one day, he was promoted to colonel and earned the pride he wore with his uniform.
Until the day Colonel Marcroft received word that General Talons had an accident in his gravity car and wouldn't recover. Dazed and worried, he arrived at the trauma center ahead of anyone else and had just leaned over the old man, barely breathing in the oxyglobe, when he noticed something wrong with the instruments feeding the life-healing fluids into his wracked body.
With a lunge, he ripped tubes out and yelled for assistance. Doors flew open as medics rolled in, and when “given their instructions,” they rolled out again with the general in a portable unit. He was moved to three locations of the center, his name and rank changed each time, and the colonel filled the corridors with armed Silhouettes dressed in medic garb ... but it was too late. General Talons died without ever waking up. That was when the general's last message reached Marcroft and put them on alert.
"Well, Bobby,” said General Talons cheerfully from the hologram effect that played from the recorded chip. The entire inner team watched, every person struggling against tears. “I expect if you're watching this hambone performance, then I've given up the ghost."
Marcroft had shuddered.
"In any event, I thought this might be necessary to put things into focus.” He enumerated on his fingers. “First. President Amaron contacted me the other day and wanted us to pick people up that he had on a list. Apparently, he was having trouble getting most of his orders through the regular military, and right now the Imperials are the only ones he and his staff can order around without giving reasons."
His eyes twinkled. “He seems perturbed that more and more people are going around heavily armed. It makes him feel uneasy ... if you get what I mean. So I told him what he could do with his list, and it didn't have anything to do with making doilies!"
A muffled sob was heard in the dead stillness of the room.
"Next, and here I'm getting serious, son.” He leaned forwards, staring from out of the hologram, the little-boy grin turning grim. “You know what's been happening of late, don't you? Well, what you may not know is that there's good cause for the chaos, lad.
"I've been given irrefutable evidence that Amaron and his cronies have attempted several times to sabotage the time-space matter displacer in an effort to prevent the Light Bearer, Reg-I-Nald of the House of Nald, from returning."
There were startled curses.
"But you can imagine the problems they've been having with that bit of effort, can't you? Here those techs are loaning their equipment, which isn't ours to play around with technology-wise, and even though the techs are contracted, getting them to break that contract takes an awful lot of drawing and twisting, until finally, you end up with several stooges to do your bidding."
He chuckled sourly. “Can you imagine how it must feel to be so desperate to get rid of him? Ah, me, just how would it be to have a Light Bearer around? Maybe all this corruption we're getting used to might stop?
"Bobby, have you the smallest pea-sized idea of what our world could become were we to have a Light Bearer at its head?” His eyes opened wide. “I'm not a religious man, but son, just thinking about it leaves me aquiver with anticipation. We'd finally be accepted into the Galactic community.
"I hate to say this, but for the last three hundred years, we've shown our worst side, not our finest. We've been considered a bunch of third-raters, and those making that judgment would be right. So now we have a chance, a slim one, and my sources tell me if we're really stupid, there are a few Galactics who'd like to kick us back to the stone-age."
No one said a word.
He shook his head. “Well, anyway, right now that doesn't matter. If I'm any judge of logistical scenarios you will have to watch Amaron and those bastards in the cabinet. The whole pack is deadly and probably responsible for my death.
"That brings me to my third issue. I'm certain they've planted moles throughout the command structure. They don't know I, along with several others, have done the same. Colonel Sendai is one of ours, but as he's becoming a real irritant, something might happen to him as well. If it does, it will send the wrong signal, and there will be a splinter group of the military who will mob the capitol and try for a coup. We can't let that happen, Bobby."
"That brings us to number four: the subversion of the constitution. That is a capital offense. It carries a death sentence. Problem is, the executioner gets just as bloody. Treason invites harm. Traitors as well as victims will swim in blood. So be cautious. Don't be hasty. And remember if you ever get into a situation that calls for astute reasoning and introspection ... ask yourself how much harm will this do, and can I avoid it?"
Then he smiled gently. “All I can ask of anyone, Bobby, is that they simply do what's right. So long, lad, and give my regards to the men, and my love to the ladies.” He grinned. “Especially the ladies!"
As the hologram died out, the silence in the room grew, until there seemed nothing left, and Colonel Marcroft grew cold.
"Someone tapped him on the shoulder."
"Yes?"
"I pulled up Colonel Sendai. He's been demoted twice since he went undercover."
"Yes?"
"So, should we tell him ... the general is dead?"
"Of course. But warn him we're not ready to move. A few more pieces have to be played first."
Four days later his appointment came, due to the need of the Silhouette Corps for a commander. Since he was only one with star-rank privilege, a brevet general position was open, following a brief by the President and his Cabinet.
* * * *
So then Marcroft asked himself what he was going to do ... along with how much harm would it create, but he knew whatever it was, it had to be swift. Talons warned of subversion in the ranks. The longer he waited, the more dangerous it became.
He thumbed the com at his seat and nodded his thanks when his uniform, cleansed of added bits by one of the psych corps chief mind benders, w
as handed back.
"Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir?"
"How did they do it? I wasn't aware of a thing."
She nodded seriously. “It was probably the chair, sir. If I'd been the one planning on sabotaging someone to that degree, I would have had the chair do it the moment you sat and triggered injectors. You would never have felt it."
"I see...” He had an idea and spoke to the pilot on the com. They were turning around and making for satellite one. At a nod everyone armed themselves.
His logistics team scrambled and huddled around the plot table, computing it for a fast work-up.
When everything was ready, and they were certain of the reactions, they nodded and Marcroft thumbed the com.
"Get me Captain Jellico and tell him that General Marcroft of the Silhouette Corps is calling for a full-staff meeting of general and admiral ranks in the planning room in three hours."
"He'll want confirmation of your authority, general."
Marcroft smiled gently, fingering the sealed envelope. “Tell him as a direct representative of the President with sealed orders, I'm assuming command of the orbital station."
There was a long pause before the pilot communicated again, but when he did, he chuckled. Brevet General Marcroft was on a roll.
At thirteen-fifty hours they docked at satellite one. He and his cadre of elite Silhouettes walked onto platform number three, the cold of space around them kept at bay with a force-shield, and were met by a squadron of space marines.
"General Marcroft, sir?” asked the marine sergeant with a stiffness that told the news had spread like wildfire. “If you will, sir, you and your party are to be escorted to the planning room. If you have requirements, they will be attended to on the way."
"Thank you, sergeant, but our needs are to ensure a safe and easy transition of authority. I'm taking responsibility for all acts aboard this station and will implement emergency powers as soon as we get our meeting under way."
The sergeant paled and stiffened to attention. He saluted and bawled marching orders to his men, and with a complement of arms held ready, made short time clearing corridors, scattering several hundred gawking and military personnel aside, until finally, they turned a corner and entered the open portals of the planning room. It was full of fuming people in attendance.
The Fourth Guardian Page 24
