by Dan Cragg
“Yeah, I know.” McKillan nodded. “I’m in line for a third star, just like you. In fact, I have about a year date-of-rank on you.” He grinned; all officers knew where they stood in line for promotion based on seniority. “At first I was, well…” He shifted his weight in his chair. “…a little pissed that I’d been passed over for command of this corps. But…” He shrugged.
“Well, Doc, it’s the chief of staff who really runs a corps—”
“Not this corps,” McKillan answered wryly. “Old Fireball runs this corps; I just help him. But tell you what, Rocky, you do your job, he gets to trust you, and he lets you alone, he’s not one of those insecure micromanagers we’ve all known.”
“Yeah, I know. I served under Carano, too,” Kocks admitted.
“You did? When?” McKillan raised his eyebrows. This was something he’d missed. Kocks had not commanded the Eighty-seventh Division that long. He was also one of Cazombi’s handpicked officers, so that spoke highly of his ability. But there was something in the way he’d said “I know” that spoke between the lines. “You two weren’t at the academy together, were you?” McKillan remembered they’d both been there about the same time.
“Yes. I graduated before he did,” Kocks sighed. “But we served together a long time ago and far away.” He smiled. “Say, this is damned good coffee, Doc.” He regarded his cigar. “And a damned fine cigar, too, I might add.”
Major General Reginald Kocks had been the “Cadet Z” previously referred to, the upperclassman who’d treated Carano so vilely at the Military Academy. Kocks had never forgiven Carano for not holding that against him.
“Fucker!” Major General Reginald Kocks shouted, and then uttered a string of expletives of which the first was the least derogatory. “The sumbitch is brought out of retirement—retirement!—to command this corps! Left us hangin’ like a bunch of grapes while that superannuated old shit gets the command. Not right! Not fair! Goddamn!”
“Well, Reggie,” Brigadier General Alfred Small, the Eighty-seventh Division Chief of Staff, protested mildly, “he was hand-selected by Cazombi himself.” He was referring to Lieutenant General Carano.
“Yeah! Just like the booger he is!” Kocks exclaimed. He reached for the half-empty bottle of Scotch and poured himself another finger. “Cazombi,” he sneered, “goddamned shitbag.”
General Small glanced apprehensively at his commander. The Old Man had drunk most of the bottle so far that night and was feeling no pain. Small was very embarrassed that his division commander hated the corps commander so intensely that he’d talk this way about him. He could see nothing wrong with General Carano, thought him a fine officer, in fact. So what if he’d been called out of retirement? Carano’s recall to active duty and elevation to corps command had been decided far above his pay grade—and General Kocks’s as well.
“Well, he’s seen some service,” Small protested mildly.
“Service my ass!” Kocks yelled. “Service,” he snorted. “I knew the little shit at the academy, Al.” Kocks shook his head. “I was his upperclassman. Miserable little snot then, miserable high-ranking snot now. All’s there is to it.” He waved one hand drunkenly to make his point.
“Sir, maybe we’d better call it quits for tonight? Assumption of command ceremony in the morning,” Small said with a glance at his watch. It was three hours; formation at six-thirty hours. They’d all have to look sharp and stand tall on Hurlburt Field in a little more than three hours and his division commander was drunk. “What do you say, sir? A little shuteye?”
“Fuckeye!” Kocks mumbled. “You go to bed, Al. ‘Assumption of command!’” He snorted derisively. “Ass-umption, you ask me. I’m sleepin’ in. You go in my place, Al.”
General Small got to his feet, “Well, good night, then, sir.” Shaking his head, he turned to go.
Behind him Kocks poured more Scotch into his glass and grimaced. “Don’t brush my teeth much anymore,” he mumbled. General Small had no idea what his commander meant by that remark.
Five-thirty hours came early the next morning. As General Small was dressing in his trailer, General Kocks’s aide knocked on the door and announced, “Sir, I can’t get the general out of his bed.”
“That’s all right, Captain. I’m representing him at the assumption of command,” Small answered.
“Fine, sir, uh, just is…”
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, the general, he’s—”
“He’s indisposed, Captain. You stay back here and look after him. Tell the division sergeant major to join me in ten minutes.”
More than 110,000 men, the infantry and Marines along with representatives from the navy air wings, stood assembled on Hurlburt Field that morning. The formation had been called at an early hour so the men could be off the field before the heat and humidity began to rise.
“Where’s General Kocks?” Lieutenant General Carano asked when he saw Brigadier General Small and the Eighty-seventh Division’s sergeant major.
“He’s not well, sir.”
“Oh? Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Oh, no, sir, it’ll pass.”
“Fine. But Al, when the ceremony’s over I’ll just stop by and make sure there isn’t anything I can do for him. You and Top come with me.” He nodded at the division sergeant major.
“Oh,” Brigadier General Small said quickly, “he’ll be just fine, sir.” He smiled lopsidedly.
“Well, Kocks and I go back a long, long way, Al. Least I can do for him.” Carano smiled and took his place before the corps.
The sergeant major raised an eyebrow and General Small thought to himself, Uh-oh.
The ceremony went off without a hitch. As the units assembled, the bands played old military airs, “Bold Sojer Boy,” “Garryowen,” “The Rock O’ Silvasia,” and others. Then General Aguinaldo formally presented General Carano with the XVIII Corps guidon. The bands struck up the Confederation Anthem, and all colors dipped as 110,000 men snapped to attention and saluted. General Carano passed the guidon to the corps sergeant major and, together with General Aguinaldo, conducted a motorized review of the troops, passing down the division fronts slowly, as honors were rendered. An artillery piece slowly fired fifteen rounds, the traditional salute for an arriving army lieutenant general, while with three ruffles and flourishes, each divisional band struck up “The General’s March” as the inspection vehicle drew abreast of its front. And then it was all over.
General Carano visibly recoiled upon entering General Kocks’s trailer. “Smells like a distillery in here,” he muttered. Kocks’s aide gestured helplessly at Brigadier Small. “I couldn’t get him up,” he whispered.
“Reggie? Reggie?” General Carano touched Kocks’s shoulder and shook him gently.
Kocks mumbled, then rolled over. “Whaaa?” he gasped, staring up at his corps commander, eyes red-rimmed and bleary. He blinked. “Carano. Fuck you, asshole!” he mumbled, and rolled back over.
Carano stepped back quickly. “General, you are drunk,” Carano said. “Is this what you meant when you said he was indisposed, Al?” he asked Brigadier General Small.
“Well, hungover, sir, actually, is what I meant,” Small answered. “Rather badly hungover, sir.”
“I can see that, and smell it,” Carano answered. “Outside,” he nodded toward the door. “Brigadier General Small,” he said formally once they were outside, and Small snapped to attention, “you are now in command of the Eighty-seventh Division. I am going to have General Kocks’s reassignment orders cut immediately. I want him out of here as soon as you receive them, in fifteen minutes, in an hour, whenever. I’ll square this away with General Aguinaldo personally. I’m going to ask personnel to expedite his orders. So, get him up, clean him up, get his things packed, and stand by to take him to the space port.
“Very well, gentlemen.” Carano came to attention and saluted the small group of officers. “Carry on.” He did a smart about-face and marched off.
Some people just do not
know how to handle forgiveness.
CHAPTER THREE
“Our Certificate of Intention to Wed.” Cynthia Suelee Chang-Sturdevant held up the flimsiplast document. She carefully put it to one side and took up two more sheets. “Our medical clearance certificates. You,” she said, nodding at Marcus Berentus, “are a mature, healthy Caucasian male citizen of the Confederation of Human Worlds, and I am a likewise mature, healthy female citizen of mixed Caucasian-Asian descent. We are certified sound in body and mind.”
“Better double-check that last one, Suelee,” Berentus chuckled.
“Speak for yourself, Marcus.” She placed the health certificates on the Certificate of Intention, carefully straightening the three sheets into a neat stack. “Next, we have our tax withholding statements since henceforth we shall be filing our taxes jointly. Next, our proof of domicile and employment certifying that we are neither homeless nor unemployed and therefore can sustain the obligations of married life.” She placed the certificate on the growing pile. She held out another flimsiplast document. “Here is certification that neither of us is presently married to anyone else and that any previous relationships we may have entered into with anyone else are hereby declared null and void.”
“If anyone here now objects to this union let him speak out or forever hold his peace,” Berentus intoned solemnly.
Chang-Sturdevant looked about the room questioningly. “No response, so I guess we’re okay on that score, then.” She laughed, placing the certificate on the pile. “Next, our background checks proving that neither of us is wanted by the police or is a fugitive from justice. Finally, we have our registration with the Ministry of Vital Statistics certifying that on this date it has been duly and officially recorded that Marcus Aurelius Berentus and Cynthia Suelee Chang-Sturdevant, in the city of Fargo, planet Earth, Confederation of Human Worlds, blahblah-blah, have entered into the state of matrimony and are hereby husband and wife with all the obligations and privileges appertaining thereunto. It is digitally signed by us and witnessing officials and carries the Ministry of Health and Education’s official seal. We are now officially husband and wife.”
“So that’s it?”
“That is it. As far as our government is concerned, we’re married, Marcus.”
“Funny, I don’t feel a bit different. When did this marriage take place?”
Chang-Sturdevant shrugged. “When they put the seal on the registration document, I guess.”
“No bridal shower, no bachelor party, no preacher, no ceremony, no rings, no reception, none of that stuff?”
“Ain’t required by law,” Chang-Sturdevant said.
“If it’s so easy to get hitched, how hard is it to get unhitched?”
“That’s not easy, Marcus. It requires at least six high-priced lawyers. And twenty-three million credits later you’re a free man once more.” She laughed again.
“I always suspected this marriage stuff was all a plot hatched by lawyers!”
“Well, at least we’re not living in sin anymore.” Chang-Sturdevant chuckled.
“You don’t want a formal church ceremony, then, you know, before God and all that?”
“God is supposed to know everything already, so why bother Him/Her/It with our vows, Marcus? Besides, after our experience with Jimmy Jasper and his Tabernacle Rock of Ages True Light Christian Church or what the hell ever it was called, I’m turned off on preachers.” Jimmy Jasper’s preaching had almost single-handedly derailed the war against the Skinks until it was discovered he’d been brainwashed by the Skinks while their prisoner and sent to Earth as their agent.
Berentus nodded. He’d been afraid for a while that Jasper had actually managed to influence Suelee, so powerful was the man’s charisma. Jasper had been swept away by a tornado that struck downtown Fargo and his body never recovered. But his ministry had been exposed and ruined. “The Finger of God, Suelee, that’s what some are calling that tornado. There are still some hangers-on who believe he was translated to heaven by the Finger of God and will return someday to resume his ministry. Fortunately they are few and impotent. But once we pound the piss out of the Skinks it won’t matter if the bastard comes back.”
“The ‘Fickle Finger of Fate’ is what it was, Marcus. It sure didn’t bother sinners like us.”
“Well, if what we did together is sin, bring it on! But you know the biggest disappointment? We don’t get any presents!” He snapped his fingers. “And you know what else? No goddamn wedding cake!”
“Only each other.”
“And these.” He produced a small box and flipped it open. Inside reposed two rings, one sized for a man, the other for Chang-Sturdevant’s finger. The small stones sparkled in their settings.
Chang-Sturdevant smiled. “They’re beautiful, Marcus. Putting them on will seal the deal.” She held out her left hand and Berentus slipped the beautiful ring on her finger; she did the same for him. She held her hand out at arm’s length and admired the ring.
“And now, the obligatory smooch.” They embraced. “Well, come on, Mrs. Chang-Sturdevant Berentus, over to the bar! This deed is not done until we wet these rings down with some of that fine old Scotch you keep on hand.”
“Lagavulin it is! And while we sip we’ll smoke Davidoffs to further speed our slide into this madcap fling called marriage. If my parents were alive, they’d be shocked their daughter married an ex-flyboy and a political appointee. They wanted me to marry a doctor.”
“They’d be proud to know you are their president, Suelee.”
“A politician? That would’ve shocked them even more! They were decent people, you know.”
Berentus poured two healthy dollops of Scotch and selected two Anniversario Number Three Turbos from Chang-Sturdevant’s humidor. “Ah, fifteen centimeters of delight!” he enthused, clipping the cigars. He held his up, examining it. “‘Rich, characterful tobacco blends.’” He sighed. “Like us, Suelee, rich and characterful.” He lit them both. They smoked and sipped in silence, enjoying the moment.
The best moments the two had ever had together were like that, standing close but relaxed, neither saying anything, just comfortable in each other’s presence, thinking their own thoughts. Each knew instinctively when those thoughts involved the other and expressed that awareness with a smile, a touch of the hand. It was an intoxicating sensation, their wordless communication, two people absorbed in each other, silently melding into one.
When a young man, Marcus had thought women were only good for keeping house and sex. He said then that the ideal woman stood one meter high and had a flat head, so you had somewhere to set your beer as she was giving you a blow job. When another man said a woman was his friend, he couldn’t understand that. Men had male friends, but who could be friends with a woman? But as he matured, Marcus began to see women as individuals with brains and aspirations and hopes just like men, people with more to them than what might lie between their legs. He became comfortable in the presence of women and started listening to them and taking them seriously. In time he found he could admire women for a lot more than their physical charms, and gradually those charms became secondary to his evaluation, and that was when he himself became most attractive to women.
But no woman had ever had the effect on Marcus that Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant did. Gradually it dawned on him that what he felt for her must be love: not the simpering infatuation that bad poets write about, but the deep and lasting realization that without her he could never be whole.
“Suelee, what about honeymoon plans?” Berentus asked suddenly.
Chang-Sturdevant shook her head. “No time for that, luv. I’ve got a reelection campaign to run. We can honeymoon when I lose.”
“Well, don’t be so negative, my dear.” Berentus put down his drink and cigar. “You will now make time for a brief respite on that couch over there.”
Chang-Sturdevant kicked off her shoes. “Think you can handle that?”
“Yup.” He guided her toward the couch. “There’ll be a se
nsation when the media finds out we’re married.”
“That ain’t nuttin’, Marcus. Wait’ll they find out I’m pregnant.”
Every capital city has its seamier side, usually in an industrial part of town where few people choose to live permanently. At night the streets there are deserted and working stiffs getting off late shifts frequent sleazy bars to deaden the dreary humdrum before trudging home. The Green Lizard was such a place in that part of Fargo. While the great and powerful, even the ordinary citizens lived in comfort elsewhere in the city, the Lizard hosted the working derelicts of society. The late-night barflies clustered there that night did not recognize the two men who crept into in a back room and would not have cared had they known who they were. The barkeeper knew them, but he had been paid to keep their identities to himself.
“The goddamned old whore married him.” Haggel Kutmoi, senior member of the Senate Armed Services Committee, shook his head in disbelief. The news had been announced earlier in the day and that had been the occasion for the late-night meeting at the Green Lizard. Across the table sat Sanguinious Cheatham of Feargut & Cheatham, one of the most prestigious law firms in Human Space. The two were not strangers to the Green Lizard. They had met there before, during the General Billie fiasco. It provided the kind of anonymous privacy that made safe the hatching of plots.
“We might be able to use that,” Sanguinious mused. “Nepotism, retaining a family member in a high government office.” He was referring to Marcus Berentus, the Confederation Minister of War, and now President Chang-Sturdevant’s husband. “I think we can force his resignation as a result of his marriage to the President.”
“We should force her resignation.” Kutmoi grimaced. “That’d sure simplify things.”
“Sorry, old man, you won’t get rid of her that easily. No, you’ll have to beat her by running against her on the Independent Party’s ticket. But she’s vulnerable. All you have to do is exploit those vulnerabilities.”
