by B. V. Larson
“But sir,” Winslade whined. “How are we supposed to fight effectively against unknown weaponry? Surely, someone took notes during their initial surveys of the Cephalopod worlds. If only—”
“No,” Deech said firmly. “The answer is ‘no,’ and it will continue to be ‘no’ until you stop asking.”
I almost said something rude, but I contained myself. Winslade was getting beat up by the tribune enough on his own without me chiming in.
“We see security installation references on these maps,” Graves said. “We’ve never gotten any details concerning them—are they classified as well?”
“They’re all classified. The very existence of the target planet is classified. However, I can tell you the pillboxes are automated and of Cephalopod manufacture. They aren’t particularly innovative—but they’re doubtlessly effective.”
That caused a bit of a stir. I’d sort of been envisioning a guard post manned by security men in space suits. It would be a lot harder to take out hardened bunkers with some kind of squid AI shooting at you.
“Can we turn those defensive mechanisms off?” Graves asked.
“They wouldn’t be terribly effective if that was easy to do,” Deech pointed out. “Their power lines are buried in solid rock underneath the pillboxes. They’re fed from generators inside the central dome itself.”
“Couldn’t we just bomb the dome from space and have done with it?” I called out from the back row.
A dozen pairs of eyes swung to look at me. “I mean,” I continued, “if we’re going to blow the whole place up anyway, why not do it right off?”
Deech stared at me. “I’m not sure I’ve met you… Centurion McGill?”
“That’s me, sir.”
“Well McGill, there are some things we wish to retrieve from the dome intact before we destroy it.”
“Like what kinds of things?”
Her demeanor shifted from open but measured, to downright annoyed. I’d seen that happen before any number of times in different folks.
“Last time Centurion…Your team may not be targeting one of them, and thus you haven’t been briefed on that part of the operation—which is classified.”
There were some freckle-faced daggers with that last part. Still, I almost asked another question, until I caught a simultaneous glare from Winslade and Graves. They couldn’t both be wrong, so I paused. It occurred to me that up until my questions, only the primus-ranked individuals had asked anything. Accordingly, I shut up.
The informal meeting wrapped up after a few more minutes, and I was left wandering back toward my unit’s pod.
“Why do I always feel the urge to cringe when you open your mouth, McGill?” Winslade asked from behind me.
“Well sir,” I said, looking back at him and giving him a grin. “Sometimes a big man’s voice will make a small man jump. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s purely natural.”
He huffed and walked away. Primus Graves caught up with me next.
“You shouldn’t talk to a superior officer like that, McGill,” he told me.
“Didn’t you execute him once a few years back?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “I’ve executed you as well—several times. The problem is I can’t seem to get it to stick.”
He gave me a tight smile, and I realized he’d made a joke. I laughed politely. That was hard, because Graves had killed me lots of times. It could be hard to forgive a man for that.
“Have you got any more info?” I asked him. “Anything on the mission I mean. Who is going after the classified stuff?”
Graves jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Winslade, for one. Go ask him about it.”
I stopped walking and let Graves continue on. Frowning, I looked around but couldn’t see where the weasel had gone. He’d vanished into one of the hatches on top of the pods.
Like a rat down a hole, he’d disappeared. I didn’t like the idea of Winslade being in charge of collecting secret weapons and the like. I couldn’t even comprehend why, with his record, a man like him would be trusted on a mission like this at all.
That was the problem with Earth, in my opinion. The government was blind to so many injustices and absurdities. One man might go to jail for espionage, while his office-mate might get a promotion.
The government types had a way of making things even more unfair in nature than they already were. By trying to keep an open mind, they often let the wolves in with the sheep.
-21-
Two days later, we arrived in the vicinity of Arcturus, coming out of warp a long way from the central star. This came as a surprise to me, as Arcturus was pretty near in astronomical terms to Old Sol herself, I would have thought it would be safe to warp in closer to the target.
Wanting to know what we might be dealing with, I sought out the smartest person I knew. Calling upon my own best tech, Natasha, I didn’t get a helpful reply at first.
“Arcturus is a K-class star,” she said, “not all that much different from our own sun.”
I made a great effort and did not roll my eyes. “I know that. I’m wondering why we’re here, because we’re supposed to be checking up on a Cephalopod world. This planet is too close. We’re well inside the borders of Province 921. This is a long way from squid space. It can’t be a star system we conquered during the war.”
She shrugged her shoulders and went back to studying something with a virtual nanoscope. “That’s politics, not science. You’ll have to ask someone else more qualified.”
She didn’t seem to care about what I considered to be a technical mystery, which was odd in itself. There she sat ignoring me, peering at her work. I decided to get a good look at what was so doggone curious.
“What’s visible in that scope that’s so damned interesting?” I asked her.
“Nothing. Just manufacturing marks.”
That raised my interest level right off. I knew that any manufacturing marks which took specialized equipment to identify must be Imperial in nature.
“You’re looking for an Imperial stamp?” I asked her.
Her head came back up from her scope, suddenly alert. “What do you know about that?”
“I know the Galactics stamp the things they make themselves with tiny identifying collections of molecules. It’s common knowledge.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said, staring at me suspiciously.
Immediately, I knew I’d blown it. I’d learned about Imperial stamps because they identified the most valuable kind of equipment I’d come into contact with. The teleport suits, for example, were very advanced and originally of Galactic manufacture.
The reason such items were a big deal was because lowlifes like humans out on the fringe of the known galaxy weren’t supposed to have access to that kind of goods, ever. What’s more, I’d once had a Galactic Key among my personal possessions—an extinction-level offense if it was discovered.
“Why are you looking for stamps, anyway?” I asked, seeking a fresh dodge. “Does it have something to do with the coming audit?”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. She turned back to her nanoscope.
“I know I’m in your unit, James,” she said. “Technically, I’m under your command. But I’ve been asked to examine various items to see if they had certain markers—and I can’t talk about it.”
Curious now, I sidled close to her and stared at the item she was examining. It didn’t look all that special.
“Is that some kind of actuator?” I asked. “Looks like it connects to something big.”
Natasha quickly moved the flat of her hand between the object and my prying eyes.
“I thought I was questioning you,” she said, looking over her shoulder at me.
“Apparently, you thought wrong.”
She looked around the lab. It was pretty empty, except for a few bored-looking techs who were working on unimportant stuff. Mostly, they were equipment-checking for tomorrow’s planned deployment.
“All right,” she said. �
��You tell me why you know about Imperial stamps, I’ll tell you what I’m examining.”
I thought about that, and I nodded. “Okay.”
“You first,” she said.
“Wait—”
“This was my idea,” she insisted.
Heaving a sigh, I gave in and lied. It was only a partial lie, which meant it was one of the best kind.
“The teleport suits are Galactic-made,” I said. “At least, the original ones were.”
“My God…” she said, staring into space. “That makes sense. No one told me. But how did you find out about that?”
“Well,” I squirmed a little. “I was in the early teleport-attack program.”
“Yes, so? How did that get you into the loop on manufacturing marks?”
I paused to gather my thoughts for a moment. The truth was, I’d possessed a Galactic Key—a powerful hacking tool that was strictly forbidden for humans to possess. It could bypass alien security, even if that security was built by the Galactics themselves. That’s when I’d learned about the stamps.
I couldn’t tell Natasha about that, though. Only a few people knew the keys existed at all—and I thought it should stay that way.
“Well…” I finally said, “during the teleport-trials I met a tech. Lisa was her name. She knew about the Imperial stamp on the suits and told me about it.”
“Why would she…?” Natasha began, then she stopped and made a wry face. “Oh. Let me guess, Lisa is attractive?”
“She’s a fine-looking woman,” I admitted, “but she doesn’t hold a candle to your aristocratic cheekbones.”
She heaved a sigh and shook her head, going back to her work. “I should have known. Pillow-talk is dangerous.”
“Your turn,” I said.
“All right. But you can’t tell anyone that I told you. This is part of our warp-bubble generation system. It’s a specialized part that maintains a perfect balance between numerous high-energy emissions.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a critical component of warp engines. We only have so many of these, and the Skrull aren’t sending us any new ones. We—we might have to build our own someday.”
“Ah…” I said, catching on. “So, you’re trying to copy the design. That’s a serious violation of Galactic Law, you know.”
“We perform more and more such violations all the time.”
She was more right than she knew, but I couldn’t tell her about it. Hell, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on her work at all if I did.
“But what about Arcturus IV?” I asked. “Why are we here?”
“I seriously don’t know. But there are planets here. None of them are inhabitable, but they were first catalogued long ago.”
I squinted at her. “So… is it likely one or more of these worlds would be rocky with a toxic atmosphere?”
“I would assume so,” she said. “The new tribune stated in her briefing that we were heading to such a planet. That would make sense, given this star’s high metallicity.”
“Pretend I skipped that day in astronomy class,” I said, “what the hell is metallicity?”
“A measurement of how much of a given star’s mass is anything other than hydrogen or helium,” she said. “Stars with high metallicity levels produce rocky planets. Life itself would be impossible without them.”
“Yeah…” I said thoughtfully. “I think I’m going to go talk to some other people now.”
Her hand shot out and caught mine. I stopped and looked at her in surprise. It had been a long time since she’d touched me at all. We’d had a serious relationship once, and we still did, but it was all in the old-friend category now.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, retrieving her hand. “Remember—you can’t tell anyone what I’ve told you.”
“They’ll never know where I got it,” I assured her.
Her eyes searched mine. She heaved a fresh sigh.
“What’s wrong now?” I asked.
“I realize that you’re promising to lie. That means what you’ve been telling me about Imperial markers was a lie, too.”
“Oh come on,” I said. “What I said wasn’t a total lie. It was an adjustment. I was only trying to protect you.”
“Whatever. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Troubled, I frowned at her. “I did it for your own good, Natasha. Believe me...”
She looked troubled right back at me, and then she stopped asking questions.
Natasha was right about one thing: we’d come to Arcturus for political reasons, not technical ones. That realization gave me the impetus to head upstairs to Gold Deck. That’s where the real answers to my questions were.
-22-
In the old days I would have stormed into Turov’s office. After a little bargaining, I’d have learned whatever I needed to know.
Unfortunately, Turov was back on Earth, and Tribune Deech was nowhere near as inviting. In fact, I couldn’t even get in the door.
“Sorry Centurion,” said a veteran guard, shaking his head. “The tribune isn’t taking walk-ins today. Her schedule is full.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “If I could just talk to her aide—”
“I’m afraid he’s left specific instructions on that score, sir.”
I blinked. “He what? You mean he told you not to allow me into this door—me by name?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said, consulting his tapper. “Yes… Centurion McGill—that’s you, right?”
This unexpected resistance flummoxed me. For years I’d been told by countless adjuncts and veterans I didn’t rate a direct audience with superior officers. Now, however, I’d attained the rank of centurion myself. Hell, Deech was only two steps above me in the command chain.
“Who is this new aide working for Tribune Deech?” I demanded. “Unless asking for that much is against the rules?”
“Not at all, sir. Primus Winslade has been newly appointed to the post.”
Winslade. That worm. He’d already managed to wangle a key staff role working for Deech.
My mind raced. Winslade was like me in a way, but much more slippery. While I’d been drilling my troops and prepping for battle, he’d been throne-sniffing his way to the top of the lapdog-list. The moment he’d achieved his goal of avoiding hard combat, he’d set himself up as a gatekeeper to kick away rivals like myself.
Compared to Winslade, I was a political dunce. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
“All right,” I told the veteran. “I’m leaving—but I’ll be back.”
When I returned to my unit, my adjuncts were arguing. That’s the trouble with having three of them—they all wanted to run the show when I wasn’t around.
“Leeson?” I called out.
“Yes sir, Centurion?” he said, wheeling around.
I liked that. No matter what kind of an unimaginative ass Leeson had been in the past, he’d never seemed to resent my promotions like the others did.
Toro was clearly irritated about my rise through the ranks. Even though Leeson had been around longer than both of us, she took it personally that she was senior and should have gotten the promotion long before yours truly.
And Harris? Well… Harris and I had been at each other’s throats for years. Only in combat did we gel and cooperate. Whenever we were at peace, and the revival machines were idling, he complained about every frigging thing I did.
“Leeson,” I said. “As my senior adjunct in this unit, you’re officially in charge when I’m not on deck. Is that clear?”
“Very clear,” Leeson said proudly. “I am senior.”
Due to our long lifespans and terms of service—which could go on damned near forever—seniority was less important than it had been in traditional military structures. People didn’t get drafted, or get old, or retire out at a certain age. In fact, a chronologically older person might even be physically younger than their juniors because they’d been recently revived. The end result was a command ladder that was l
ess rigid when it came to years served.
The other two adjuncts looked glum, but they’d quieted down. It looked like order had been restored—but that was just an illusion.
“In your absence this morning, sir,” Harris said, “we’ve been discussing what we should do training-wise. This is, after all, our last opportunity to get these recruits ready for action.”
“Harris wants to kill them,” Leeson said flatly. “But I’m against any extreme action for our final day. The men won’t be any good if they’re traumatized when we face a real enemy.”
“With all due respect,” Harris said angrily. “That’s the whole point. Recruits are going to die in the field anyway. They need to get their fears hammered out of them right now.”
Harris was one of those guys who liked to say “with all due respect” when he actually meant you could go screw yourself.
Thoughtful, I turned to Adjunct Toro. “What do you think we should do for our last day?” I asked her.
The left side of her mouth twitched. “I’m surprised you’re asking me,” she said in a snotty tone. “You’re the centurion. Don’t you know what the right play is?”
I was finally getting pissed off at all of them. They were bickering still. It was less open, but it was still there. To my mind the whole thing was an insult. None of them figured I was a legit commander, so they were trying to take over by putting out their own ideas or downright foot-dragging.
Well, there were ways to get the attention of underlings. I’d seen Graves handle similar situations on many occasions.
“Thanks for the thoughtful input, Adjunct,” I told Toro. She frowned in confusion, but I pressed on. “We’re going to have ourselves another contest. This one should be less deadly, but still a teachable moment for the whole unit.”
They looked at me with vague curiosity.
“First off,” I said, “we’ll break out shock-batons for everyone. Not those spear-things, they’re too deadly. To make it interesting, we’ll have three troops in each heat. One man from each of your three platoons. We’ll start with the lower ranks and work our way up with winners going to a second round. Let’s get started.”