DURING THESE THREE MONTHS THERE HAVE BEEN A FEW REPORTS OF UNUSUAL METEORITES. METEORITES ARE COMMON ENOUGH IN THE NIGHT SKY OF HAULOVER, BUT THESE WERE REPORTED TO NOT FLASH OUT LIKE NORMAL METEORITES, AND IN SEVERAL CASES THEY WERE REPORTED TO HAVE ABRUPTLY CHANGED DIRECTION IN FLIGHT. SOME OF THEM WERE ALSO REPORTED TO BLINK OUT AND THEN IMMEDIATELY REAPPEAR AT DISTANCES TOO GREAT FOR THEM TO HAVE TRAVELED IN THE INTERVENING TIME. ONE OBSERVER, A FORMER STARSHIP CREWMAN, SAID IT LOOKED LIKE THEY BRIEFLY TRANSITTED INTO BEAM SPACE. BUT, OF COURSE, EVERYBODY KNOWS IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO GO INTO OR OUT OF BEAM SPACE IN A GRAVITY WELL. THERE HAVE BEEN NO INSTRUMENT READINGS TO CONFIRM THESE REPORTS, WHICH HAVE ALL BEEN IN REMOTE LOCATIONS AND OBSERVED VISUALLY BY ONE OR ONLY A FEW PEOPLE. SEVERAL OF OUR SCIENTISTS HAVE DISMISSED THE REPORTS AS “SWAMP GAS,” IF THAT ANCIENT REFERENCE MEANS ANYTHING TO YOU. I’D BE INCLINED TO AGREE WITH OUR PSYCH TEAM, WHO DISMISS THE REPORTS AS THE RESULT OF OVERACTIVE IMAGINATIONS OF SOCIAL MISFITS WHO GO INTO THE WILDERNESS, ONLY TO DISCOVER THAT THEY NEED SOCIAL ATTENTION, SO THEY MAKE UP FAR-FETCHED STORIES TO TELL THE FOLKS THEY LEFT BEHIND. WHAT I FIND DISTURBING ABOUT THESE REPORTS IS THAT EACH OF THEM HAPPENED WITHIN DAYS BEFORE WE LOST CONTACT WITH ONE OF THE HOMESTEADS.
ONE FINAL DETAIL. TRACES OF AN ACID WERE FOUND AT SEVEN OF THE BURNED-DOWN HOMESTEADS. OUR CHEMISTS DESCRIBE IT AS, “SOME KIND OF PHOSPHORIC ACID…POSSIBLY WHITE PHOSPHORUS. MIXED WITH ORGANIC SOLVENTS LIKE CARBON DISULFIDE OR BENZENE.” WHATEVER THAT MEANS. I DO KNOW THE HOMESTEADERS HAVE NO USE FOR SUCH AN ACID AND, INDEED, THE CHEMISTS ASSURE ME IT’S NOT EVEN KNOWN TO BE IN THE INVENTORY ANYWHERE ON HAULOVER.
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION THAT WOULD HELP ME WITH THIS PROBLEM, I’D MUCH APPRECIATE IT. I HOPE YOU AND YOUR FAMILY ARE DOING WELL.
From there, the message contained personal details.
Berentus whistled after reading the message. “That certainly does sound like the Skinks,” he said.
“And it’s our secretiveness about the Skinks that caused this war. I believe it is past time we went public about them.”
Berentus looked at her long and solemnly before saying, “Let’s drink to that.” So they did.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jason Billie glared at Admiral Joseph K. C. B. Porter, who looked away as he fiddled nervously with the third button on the front of his tunic.
“Ahem, Jason—” Porter began.
“I demand a court-martial! I demand you court-martial that goddamned nigger and his asshole buddy, that Marine!” Billie rose halfway out of his chair as he spoke. Admiral Porter reared back in his own seat, half afraid Billie would come across his desk at him, he was so enraged. He held his hands out in a gesture that both suggested Billie calm down and warded off an assault if he didn’t.
“Jason, the president has ordered—”
“That fucking Chink cunt!” Billie almost screamed. “Goddamned bitch! Goddamned bastards, all of them! They were all against me! From the start, nothing but trouble from those people. I was sent out there to fail, I know that now. They were out to destroy me!” Billie sank back into his seat, breathing heavily, virtually exhausted by his outburst. He wiped his brow and lips with a handkerchief. He had conveniently forgotten that he had asked Admiral Porter for the command of the army on Ravenette in the first place, and it was he himself who convinced the president to give it to him.
Porter said nothing for a while. So, he thought, now I begin to see why Cazombi relieved this madman from command. Cautiously, during the prolonged silence, an aide stuck his head in the door and raised his eyebrows at the admiral, silently asking if everything was all right. Porter shook his head briefly, indicating that everything was under control. Quietly, the aide withdrew, but had two burly MPs stand by in the anteroom in case they were needed. Admiral Porter knew nothing about the MPs, but he might have been more relaxed than he was if he did.
“Jason, old friend,” Porter began, “the president has accepted Cazombi’s surrender terms on behalf of her government.” He paused, waiting apprehensively for the violent response he expected from Billie, but the four-star general just sat there silently, his handkerchief to his lips. “She has ordered that there shall be no, uh, scandal over what he did to you out there.” Again Porter paused, expecting another outburst and enormously relieved when it didn’t follow. When he was sure Billie had calmed down he went on. “I have my orders. You had to resign your command due to ill health, Jason; that announcement has already been made. You have been placed on the temporarily disabled-retired list effective today, full pay and benefits. I want you to return to your quarters now, get a grip on yourself, and be back here at fifteen hundred for your retirement and award ceremony.”
“You’re going to give me one of those goddamned meaningless attaboys and put me out to pasture.” Billie shook his head slowly. “Joe, I don’t know what the service has come to, letting these cunts and niggers—”
“That’ll be enough of that talk, Jason!” Porter said sharply. “Fifteen hundred. You be here. You behave yourself during this ceremony, do you understand? Any more talk like that out of you and I guarantee you, Jason, I’ll court-martial you and dismiss you from the service for disciplinary reasons! What happened on Ravenette is over.” Porter meant what he’d said.
Billie sighed. “Admiral, I am fucked, but let me tell you something. I’m not done. You haven’t heard the last of me.” He saluted formally and departed.
Porter let out a long sigh and slumped in his seat. His steward came into the office. “Sir, lunch?”
“Is it lunchtime already?” Porter frowned, but instantly brightened somewhat at the prospect of eating. “What’s on the menu today?”
“What you ordered, sir. Your favorite—hot dogs with a dessert of orange sherbet and green pepper slices!”
“Um. I’m not very hungry. Take it away. Uh, no, wait, leave the sherbet,” he added quickly. He sampled the sherbet and took a bite of the green pepper. He understood this had been a favorite dessert dish during the twentieth century, enjoyed particularly by the people living in the subtropical areas of the former United States and called the “Fort Lauderdale Trots.” He never understood what that name signified, but he enjoyed the dessert. He summoned his aide and ordered the steward to bring back the hot dogs. What the hell, he thought, I’m not going to let Jason Billie screw over my appetite!
The Green Lizard was a dark and sleazy bar at all times, but darker and sleazier that night than usual, and sparsely occupied at that late hour. Just the place for conspirators to meet. It was also situated in a Fargo suburb guaranteed not to attract anyone who might know Jason Billie, dressed in nondescript civilian attire, or his guest.
“This crystal is my report on what really happened on Ravenette. I want you to read it and share it with the members of your committee.” Billie shoved the crystal across the table.
“Well, General, I’ll read it but I can’t guarantee you the committee will do anything about it. Most members are happy the war’s over and that our side was victorious,” the little man replied. He hefted the crystal in his palm. “You’ve heard, haven’t you, that Alistair Cazombi’s name is going to be put forward as the next Chairman of the Combined Chiefs?” The little man smiled wryly at Billie, calculating what effect the news would have on him.
“What? Cazombi, chairman?” Billie gasped. “You’re joking? They’re jumping that, that, man over all the eligible four-stars? I’m telling you now, Senator, in our world of today, virtue is punished while criminals and traitors are allowed to prosper.”
The little man sitting opposite Billie did not know him very well, but he knew him well enough to understand that he was far from having any virtues himself, that he was in fact a manipulator who’d do anything to advance his own interests. He permitted himself a mental grin. Jason Billie would make a good politician. “I am not joking, General, and furthermore, if the president submits his name, he’ll get the appointment. There’s hardly anyone in the Senate who’d oppose her on this. Cazombi’s star, er, stars
, have risen.”
“The Virgin’s slimy boogers, you say!”
The little man winced at the curse. “It’s a fact, General. So why should I stick my neck out for what’s on this crystal of yours?”
“I’m not a general anymore, Senator,” Billie said bitterly. “I’m just plain old Mister Billie now.” Briefly but with feeling, Billie gave his version of the war on Ravenette. “Mutiny, treason, that’s what it amounts to,” he concluded. “Treason because he let those war criminals off and she went along with it! There’s an election coming up, Senator. This should be an issue. Your hearings could swing the vote. You could be Chang-Sturdevant’s successor to your party’s leadership.” He shrugged and left the rest hanging.
“Ummm. General, did you know that General Anders Aguinaldo has been appointed to head up some kind of special military task force? Rumor has it he’s already departed to form it up on Arsenault. Rumor has it that Cazombi’s appointment as chairman has got something to do with Aguinaldo’s new command. Any idea what’s going on?”
“I’ve heard about Aguinaldo getting a new job.” Billie’s response was noncommittal. He was perplexed. What did Aguinaldo’s new assignment have to do with his problem on Ravenette? “’Nother goddamned Marine,” he added dismissively. “But what’s on that crystal, handled properly, can unseat Chang-Sturdevant’s administration, Senator.”
“Ummm. Well, General, we’ll see.” He pocketed the crystal. “Have you retained counsel?”
“I am going to, Senator.”
Senator Kutmoi scribbled a name on a napkin. “Call this man tomorrow. He’s a senior partner in a very famous law firm here in Fargo. He could get Judas Iscariot off.”
“I don’t know if I care for that comparison, Senator,” Billie said, his face turning red.
“Oh, no offense, General! Just an expression. Well, it’s getting late. You must excuse me.” He extended a thin, clammy hand. “I will be in touch.” And with that he departed.
“Thanks for coming,” Billie muttered to the senator’s back. Billie sat there for a long time after the senator had departed, nursing a glass of beer that had long gone flat. Everything had gone flat, he reflected. He rubbed a hand across the five-day growth of beard on his jaw. He’d gone flat. “Goddamned politician,” he muttered. He doubted the senator would even read his report. “Damn asshole.” He stood up, threw some bills on the table and walked painfully to the door. The events of the last weeks had prematurely aged Jason Billie and the devil of it was he wouldn’t even be eighty until next month.
Jason Fosdick Billie sat in his hotel room, his fists pressing hard into his temples. Tears of bitter disappointment stained his cheeks. He had been a soldier all his life. He had risen to the very pinnacle of military success with his appointment to lead the army on Ravenette. Now he was down, out, disgraced, and his enemies had been put over him.
Why? he asked himself over and over again, Why?
At Billie’s elbow was a tumbler half full of the very best Scotch available in Fargo. He had consumed the missing half, but in his present mood it had tasted like bad water and did nothing for him. A Clinton lay in an ashtray beside the Scotch, burned out only one-third of the way down. Usually so delicious, this evening it had only scorched the inside of his mouth and left a taste of dried excrement on his tongue.
And now, after having suffered unimaginable disgrace, he had fallen even further, to the despicable level of consulting with the two lowest forms of human life, a ward-heeling politician who had recommended he see a lawyer.
Even though Jason Fosdick Billie had more in common with lawyers and politicians than he was willing to admit, he still had the quality of competence on the plus side of his ledger. He was very good at what he did. He understood the military service, which in one important aspect was a bureaucracy. Field commanders worked in a fluid environment, one where rules and regulations often did not apply and where individual initiative was required to overcome problems and where delay could be fatal; make the wrong decision in the field and that could be the end of an officer’s career. That is the main reason why as a junior officer Billie had avoided field command, especially in war, which by itself could be very damaging to one’s health.
But in the bureaucracy of an army staff, Jason Billie was in his element. He could obfuscate, delay, confuse any issue before the staff, postpone important decisions until behind the scenes he had politicked the ones he wanted. He was an expert at the give-and-take of the conference room. He could dominate and be subservient at the same time, browbeat those who disagreed with him and suck up to those in authority. He could think fast and no one ever caught him at a loss for words, his command of repartee, the only kind of “command” he was really good at, was devastating. Few would dare to cross verbal swords with Jason Fosdick Billie.
Except that goddamned Alistair Cazombi. Cazombi! The name coursed through his brain like a hot poker. How he hated that man! Cazombi, a former sergeant who had risen somehow to flag rank without ever attending a military academy. Unthinkable! How could such an ordinary man have achieved three stars, much less a nomination to be the next Chairman of the Combined Chiefs of Staff? That had been Billie’s job! He should have been the next chairman! He’d have had the job too, until that damned man came along. He groaned audibly and smashed his fists into his head repeatedly as he remembered with burning cheeks how Cazombi had him arrested in front of the entire staff, had him, a full general, hauled off like a disobedient brat for picking his nose at the dinner table!
It was all due to that old bitch, Chang-Sturdevant. Could Cazombi have been porking the hag? How else could she have taken to the man so readily? No, he thought, that wouldn’t have been possible; Cazombi had been on Ravenette too long, no opportunity. Then it occurred to him. Both of them were dirty wogs! Well, one was a wog, the other was a nigger. But that was it! The racially inferior types always ganged up on the pure Aryan. That had been the case for centuries and Jason Fosdick Billie was only the most recent victim of such schemes.
Jason Fosdick Billie had never married. His career had been the only interest in his life. He had a sister; she lived elsewhere on Earth and would have nothing to do with her brother. He came from a family with a long history of distinguished military and public service. His ancestors had been commanders and statesmen and to some extent his illustrious name had aided him in his rise within the army hierarchy. No matter what kind of man he had become, he was the descendant of a long line of valiant military men. And he was rich, not just because of old family money but because he was a shrewd investor. He could take his retirement now and live in splendor the rest of his days. Any other man would have consoled himself with that. But not General Jason Billie.
No, there is only one way to end this disgrace. He got up from where he was sitting and took a bag out of the closet. Inside was an antique semiautomatic handgun. It had belonged to his great-great-great-grandfather, who’d retired as a major general, covered with decorations for valor. It was a .32 caliber Colt which had once been standard issue in the old United States Army for the exclusive use of flag officers. Years ago, at some expense, Billie had had fifty bullets specially manufactured for it and he had actually fired the old gun several times. He had kept it in good condition and it still worked perfectly. There was some pitting in on the slide, but otherwise it was in almost-new condition.
General Jason Fosdick Billie pulled the slide and inserted a brass cartridge into the gun’s chamber. He put the barrel into his mouth. The strong taste of steel spread over his tongue. He squeezed the trigger lightly. One second, one instant, and it’d all be over. He closed his eyes. Me, consult a lawyer? Make my disgrace a matter of public record? Better death.
But…A thought suddenly occurred to him. He paused. He took his finger off the trigger and removed the barrel from his mouth. What if that lawyer could do something to resurrect his reputation? What if that senator’s hearings turned things around? He, Jason Billie, could hold his own! Who’d be w
atching and listening? Plebeians, politicians, people naturally inferior to himself, people who could be swayed. Yes! Yes, he could do it!
Jason Billie laid the pistol down and sipped his Scotch. He relighted his Clinton, sucked the smoke into his lungs and exhaled luxuriously. “Alistair,” he said aloud, “watch out, you black bastard! Jason Billie is not done with you yet!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Do you think,” Senator Haggle Kutmoi said, glancing around the sleazy bar with disgust, “we might have met in a more, um, congenial environment?”
“General Billie recommended the Green Lizard. He said you’d been here before, Senator,” Sanguinious Cheatham replied, smirking. “Besides, Senator, we can’t quite conduct our business in one of Fargo’s more upscale bistros, can we? We, ah, don’t want your colleagues to know you’re meeting with Billie’s lawyer, do we?” He shifted from smirk to smile.
“And just what is our business, Counselor?” Cheatham was a senior partner in the law firm of Feargut and Cheatham, which General Jason Billie had retained to represent him in a suit he planned to bring against President Chang-Sturdevant and Marcus Berentus over the war on Ravenette. Feargut and Cheatham was a well-known firm that specialized in high-profile cases. Their fees were high but so were their settlements, and they had a nearly perfect record at winning controversial cases. Often merely the announcement they’d been retained in a case was enough for their client to win an out-of-court settlement.
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