Steel Gauntlet

by David Sherman

  “A-ten-SHUN!” the brigadier commanded, and the ranks snapped smartly from parade rest to the position of attention.

  Slowly, with great dignity, Namur mounted the stairs. The surrender delegation stood as Namur approached to within a few paces of the table, where he saluted Admiral Wimbush. The admiral returned the salute. Namur made a slight bow toward Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys and then slowly, ceremoniously, unbuckled his belt and handed it over to General Aguinaldo. A great cheer arose from the assembled crowd. A soldier brought a chair, and Namur was invited to seat himself before the delegation. Aguinaldo handed the belt to an aide who had rushed up to receive it. Admiral Wimbush offered Namur the surrender document, which Namur read and signed with a flourish. Then each of the delegation signed in turn. Wellington-Humphreys, as the Confederation President’s personal representative, signed last.

  “These proceedings,” Wimbush announced ponderously, happily plagiarizing the remarks of a renowned warrior from the distant past, “are now ended.” The crowd burst into wild cheering and dancing. Quietly, Admiral Wimbush, his generals, and Naseby Namur, arose, stepped back from the table, and took up places on the far side of the platform, next to the dignitaries. To that point every move had been carefully choreographed, even Namur’s noisy emergence from his command tank and his dirty uniform, to emphasize the fact that his side had lost.

  Wellington-Humphreys now stood and waited patiently for the crowd to quiet down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, and the crowd roared again. She made several more starts. Gradually the multitude began to quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “I am now going to introduce you to the provisional government of Diamunde.” She gestured at the dignitaries sitting behind her. “I shall call each person’s name and appointment, and each will join me here so you can see them all. With help from the Confederation, they will maintain peace and economic stability on this world, and then—” Here she paused. “—the Confederation will assure elections, so for the first time in your planet’s history your government will represent you, and not some corporate entity.”

  At first these remarks were greeted by a long silence, but as their import began to sink in, first scattered applause and then gradually a roar of approval rose from the thousands of throats. Astonished at the reaction, Wellington-Humphreys smiled, and as the crescendo swept over the platform like a palpable wave of sound, for the first time in her career as a diplomat she was sincerely moved by her own words—a very rare thing for any diplomat—and deeply embarrassed as unbidden and unfamiliar tears formed at the sides of her eyes.

  Wellington-Humphreys’s staff had done their work thoroughly. From among the survivors of the Hefestus, Tubalcain, and the smaller consortia management staffs, they had selected individuals who had the knowledge and technical skills required to form a government that could work.

  After the introductions, Wellington-Humphreys stood flanked by six men and four women, the nucleus of the new government of Diamunde. Only a president was needed now, and her work would be completed. He had been contacted several days before and had agreed to the appointment only after a long meeting with Wellington-Humphreys. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she intoned, “I give you your new president, a brave man who has the moral courage, the leadership, and the fortitude to lead Diamunde back into its rightful place in the Confederation of Worlds.” She paused.

  Admiral Wimbush looked quizzically at General Aguinaldo, who shrugged. Only the military men remained seated. Everyone else was standing beside the Ambassador. The military, because government was none of their business, had not been included in any of the civilian rigmarole. Wimbush was anxious to return to his flagship and see how the five stars of a marshal of the Fleet would look on his collars.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Wellington-Humphreys announced, “I give you Mr. President Naseby Namur.”

  Back in his quarters onboard the Ogie, Admiral Wimbush relaxed with a stiff drink in his hand, going over a stack of dispatches and reports. An aide, a full commander, entered and stood waiting for the admiral to recognize his presence. After a long moment Wimbush looked up inquiringly.

  “Sir, a hyperspace drone from the Combined Chiefs has just delivered a dispatch. It’s Eyes Only for you, sir.” Wimbush’s heart raced. The Combined Chiefs—this was it! Eagerly he snatched the cassette and popped it into his decoder. In seconds a message leaped out at him from the vidscreen. Wimbush blinked. Then he just stared at the screen for a long time. The aide quietly took a pace forward from where he stood and leaned forward slightly so he could surreptitiously read the message over the admiral’s shoulder. Wimbush never noticed. The commander straightened up, a tiny smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. After waiting several minutes for the admiral to dismiss him, the commander shrugged and quietly let himself out of the admiral’s quarters.

  Wimbush continued to stare at the vidscreen. No Combined Chiefs, not even another operational command. Fleet Admiral Wilber “Wimpy” Wimbush was to be the next Commandant of the Naval War College. Preposterous; no one went there. Even naval officers preferred to attend other service schools. Why, even ICAF figured higher on most officers’ dream sheets. He’d be rubbing shoulders with people like—like—Professor Benjamin. He was being told to retire. All he could think of was how he’d like to murder General Han.

  In the companionway outside, the aide whistled softly to himself as he headed for the wardroom. There really is a God, and He loves us! he thought. The wonderful news would spread like wildfire throughout the Fleet—and he would be the messenger.

  Epilogue

  When the weary men of the 34th FIST returned to Thorsfinni’s World, the unit began a reduced training schedule while each eligible man was afforded a chance to go on leave. Refitting, replacements, and the necessary personnel reorganizations required because of combat losses, would be taken care of during the training stand-down, and there would be plenty of liberty for everyone.

  Selected from company rosters by their first sergeants, those Marines would go to their home worlds, where friends and family eagerly waited for them. A few of the eligibles opted to spend their time between New Oslo and Bronny, soaking up the beer and ’Finni hospitality. Dean was one of them. He’d gone to the top of the home leave list when his mother died, but he’d asked Top Myer to give him a few days to think it over. Claypoole and MacIlargie both invited Dean to help them drink up all the beer in Bronny. But not even that appealed to him very much. He found himself at loose ends. His only reason to return to Earth would be to visit Fred McNeal’s family and his own mother’s grave. McNeal had been killed on Elneal, Dean’s first deployment. For their part, his friends in third platoon understood how he felt, so they did not press him to join in the revels.

  So in the end Dean remained most nights in the barracks at Camp Ellis, wandering through the nearly empty hallways. “Make up your mind, Dean,” Top Myer had told him. “If you don’t want to go somewhere, I’ll give your allocation to somebody else, but I won’t hold it open forever.”

  Then Captain Conorado called him into his office.

  “Dean, you need to get out of here for a while. You need to unwind. Don’t you have anybody at home you’d like to see?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. My mom died while we were coming back from Elneal, and my dad’s been dead for years. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I was never close to my aunts and uncles or their kids. My friends are all here in the 34th. I was gonna stop in on a buddy’s family and see them, but that’d take only a few hours.”

  “McNeal’s folks?” Conorado asked. Dean nodded. The captain understood. “Well, Dean, I’ve got some company business to finish up here and then I’m off for New Oslo.” The married officers and senior NCOs kept their families at New Oslo. “Look, if you stay around here, come on out and spend a few days with us.”

  Dean was flabbergasted. His company commander was opening his home to him? He didn’t know what to say except thanks. But he knew he j
ust could never be at ease in a situation like that. On the other hand, he was flattered.

  Dean’s long flight back to Earth was not scheduled to depart for two days. He went into Bronny, but the beer tasted flat and neither Claypoole nor MacIlargie’s clowning around could relieve his depression. And to make matters worse, both were scheduled to depart on leave soon themselves, so if Dean did stay behind, things would get even lonelier. Gunny Bass was not around to lend a hand; he had gone on leave in New Oslo, keeping the promise he’d made to Katrina. Dean left early that night.

  Back in the barracks, he lay on his bunk and tried to read. No good. The room was a mess and would stay that way until the other members of his fire team returned. There’d be few inspections in the 34th until the stand-down was over. From way down the hall a door slammed, sending a sharp echo throughout the whole building. He thought he might go see who it was.

  Then he sat bolt upright, stunned by another thought: He didn’t have to return to Earth, he could go anywhere he wanted to in Human Space. Okay, he would go back to Wanderjahr! He might be able to see Hway. Oh, she’d be busy with the details of running her mother’s state, Morgenluft, and it might be hard to get in to see her, but he could try. Hell, he thought, sure she’ll see me! Just thinking about her aroused him. And he’d made friends with the police officers in Brosigville, so he’d always have a welcome there. And if nothing else, he could sit in the cafés, smoke thule and drink beer and sing songs with the bar girls for two months. But it was Hway he wanted to see if only for five minutes, the trip would be worth it.

  During the night he dreamed of combat. St. Cyr’s tanks were rolling down on him again, just like that first night at Oppalia, and he crouched with a Straight Arrow over his shoulder, the ground shaking underneath him, men screaming orders all around and the darkness split by the vivid flashes of tank cannons and exploding shells and rockets. He awoke with a start, bathed in perspiration.

  He lay awake in the empty, darkened room for a long time, then turned his face to the wall and let the tears run down his cheeks.