The noncom shrugged. “Human, sir. With Naa bodyguards.”
“Names?”
“Booly, sir.
Major
Bill Booly, retired, and his wife, Captain Connie Chrobuck.”
Kattabi had heard the names before. Everyone had. Major Bill Booly, along with the officer who later became his wife, had battled the Hudathans on that very soil. Once the war was over, they vanished into the only partially explore
d wilderness that still claimed vast sections of the planet’s surface. Heard from now and then, especially where the welfare of the tribes was concerned, but rarely seen.
Did the Boolys have a son? A major? Or a colonel? Yes, Kattabi thought they did,
if
the couple were who they said they were.
Gunmaker, who seemed all too capable of reading his commanding officer’s mind, extended a hand. “The major gave me this, sir.”
Kattabi took the box, noticed it was heavy, and popped the lid. There was no mistaking the starburst, the Confederate holo seal, or the weight of real gold.
A Presidential Medal of Valor. The highest award the Confederacy could bestow. The general cleared his throat. “Thank you, Sergeant. Show our guests in.”
The better part of three minutes passed before Kattabi heard boots scrape on gravel. A pair of Naa warriors, both festooned with weapons, entered and took a long look around. One of them nodded and spoke into a throat mike.
The woman entered first. She had lived long and hard. But beauty could still be seen in her high cheekbones, the clear gray eyes, and the shape of her mouth.
She wore a long, fur-lined cloak, open to reveal a cross-draw holster, and a well-cut pair of trousers. Black high-topped boots completed the outfit.
Kattabi felt himself weighed, analyzed, and dissected all within the space of a few moments. Her smile lit up the room. “General Kattabi... it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name’s Chrobuck.”
Kattabi took her hand, found it was warm, and felt like a school boy at a dance. There was something regal about the woman, as if she were special, and well aware of it. “The pleasure is mine, ma’am. Or should I say
Captain
?”
Chrobuck laughed. The sound had a girlish quality. “That was in another lifetime, General. Perhaps you know our son? Colonel Bill Booly?”
“I know
of
him... but never had the pleasure.”
The woman appeared disappointed. “No matter.... Allow me to introduce my husband. Bill, the general is directly in front of you.”
William Booly II smiled as his wife stepped out of the way. Dark hollows occupied the places where his eyes should have been. One had been lost, replaced, and lost again. Disease had claimed the second, leaving the old man blind.
Or was he? The ex-legionnaire seemed to know where things were. He held out his hand. “You have one helluva rep, General—the kind based on merit.”
Kattabi took the other man’s hand and returned the medal. “Quite a calling card, Major—there aren’t a whole lot of those floating around.”
Booly smiled, slipped the box into a pocket, and gestured toward the fire. “Mind if I sit? My legs aren’t what they used to be.”
A legionnaire fetched a stool while Chrobuck removed her husband’s riding cloak and draped it in front of the fire. Something about the way she did it spoke volumes and made Kattabi envious. Sacrifices had been made to reach his present position—
lots
of them—and the possibility of a family had been the first.
The cloak steamed, and Booly accepted a cup of tea. He took a tentative sip and turned empty eye sockets toward his host. “I’m sorry about the fort, General—but you’ll win it back.”
Kattabi was quick to seize the opening. “I’m glad to hear it. Any sort of information would be most welcome.”
The older man nodded. “Like my father, and my grandfather before him, I hold the position ‘Chief of Chiefs.’ It’s largely ceremonial, since the other Chiefs rarely do anything I suggest, but there are some perks, including a rather colorful outfit and a network of spies.
“Most of the spies stay busy watching each other, but some live in Naa Town, and a few work in the fort itself.”
Kattabi forgot that the man in front of him was blind and nodded his understanding. The Naa had been spying on the Legion since first landing, and, in spite of the endless efforts to weed them out, always managed to infiltrate one or two agents into the fort itself.
“That being the case,” Booly continued, “I can provide you with the following facts: The mutiny, which may or may not have been coordinated with events elsewhere, occurred at approximately 1000 hours, day before yesterday, and was led by a quad named De Vane.”
Kattabi scowled, tried to remember a borg named DeVane, and came up empty. “I was afraid of something like that. Please continue.”
Booly coughed and took another sip of tea. “The revolt took place during the morning inspection. The person who conceived the plan was smart,
very
smart, since that’s the time when most of the officers and noncoms all gather in the same place.”
Kattabi could imagine the scene. Officers and noncoms to the front, backed by rank after rank of legionnaires. And there, behind the crisp white kepis, the Trooper IIIs, the Trooper IIs, and the tank-sized quads.
Kattabi looked for the other man’s eyes and saw nothing but scar tissue. “So, what happened then?”
Booly grimaced. “Nothing good. Stohl gave a speech, started to inspect the troops, and they took him prisoner. A scuffle ensued, loyal troops came to the general’s assistance, and DeVane opened fire.
“That was pretty much it, except for the plan to capture you and secure the rest of the planet.”
“And it would have worked,” Kattabi said softly, “if it weren’t for my scouts.”
“
And
your willingness to listen,” Chrobuck added firmly.
Kattabi was about to demur when Gunmaker appeared at his side. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“Com call for you, sir. A technician named Acosta.”
Kattabi allowed his eyebrows to rise. “From the fort?”
The Naa was as expressionless as always. “Yes, sir, but there’s more.”
The general frowned. “Don’t toy with me, Gunmaker. Where is he?”
The scout broke into a rare grin. His teeth were white. “
She
locked herself inside DeVane’s cargo bay. The com gear belongs to him.”
The Boolys laughed, and Kattabi shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Yes, sir,” the frequently insubordinate scout agreed. “You probably will.”
Acosta smiled grimly as the lights flickered and came back on. De Vane was testing to see how far her control extended—and searching for the means to reassert himself.
She glanced around. There were six control panels in the bay, each protected by a door. She had opened every one of them, scanned the handheld technical interface, and used the onboard tool kit to make some modifications. Nobody was going to open the door, not without shutting DeVane down, or cutting their way in. A real possibility
if
De Vane allowed them to do it.
So, while the technician couldn’t control the quad, she could monitor his actions, and use his com gear. Did
he
know that? Acosta wasn’t sure but didn’t really care. Whatever was, was.
The deck swayed and pushed against the legionnaire’s boots. The quad was on his feet! The technician grabbed a handhold as the deck shimmied from side to side. The bastard was trying to kill her! To bash her brains out against a bulkhead!
Acosta hung on for dear life as the deck tilted, bucked, and swayed. Tools flew every which way, and the technician swore as one hit the bulkhead inches from her face.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour but was no more than a minute, DeVane broke it off. His voice was hopeful. It boomed over the intercom. “Acosta? Are you there?”
The cables that connected the vid cams to the cyborg’s com system had been cut. Should she answer, and run the risk of another round of cybernetic calisthenics? Or remain silent, and invite an attack on the door?
The legionnaire sat down, strapped herself in, and offered a response. “Yeah, I’m here, shit-for-brains, living in your guts. What’s up?”
The quad went crazy. Legionnaires looked on in open-mouthed wonder as the machine danced around the bay, bellowed obscenities, and crashed into walls.
Finally, after Acosta had tossed what remained of her breakfast, the quad calmed down.
Careful lest the borg catch her off guard, Acosta scurried around the bay, stored the tools, and took her seat. That’s when she made the call.
It took the technician the better part of ten minutes to talk her way past a com tech, a sergeant, and get Kattabi on the horn. He was calm but suspicious. “Dog-One here... go.”
Acosta didn’t have a call sign, so she made one up. “Roger, Dog. This is Flea... I could use your help.”
Kattabi laughed. “We’re all ears, Flea—how ’bout a sit rep?”
The ensuing conversation lasted for the better part of fifteen minutes and was hampered by the fact that there was no way to ensure security.
So, in spite of the fact that Acosta could confirm that a mutiny had taken place, there was no real resolution. Neither of them liked it, but the next moved belonged to DeVane, and he was crazy.
The cell, which was the most uncomfortable his jailers had been able to find, still smelled like the previous occupant, a thief named “Lucky” Luko, who really was lucky, and had been released to make room for officers and loyalist scum.
Though a large man, General Stohl seemed smaller now, as if the loss of authority had left his skin only half full.
Still stunned by the hand fate had dealt him, Stohl sat with his head bowed, trying to collect his thoughts. The beatings had been painful, but the humiliation hurt most of all. How could they? Didn’t they realize who he was? The Legion’s most senior officer. The leader of...
A door slammed. The general stood and backed into a corner. The worst part of the beatings was not knowing when they would occur. The lack of surety caused fear—something the officer had rarely experienced.
A man laughed, an old-fashioned key rattled in the lock, and the door squealed open. Stohl squinted into the handheld light. Private Zedillo hated officers—especially generals. His voice was sarcastic. “Ooops! Sorry, General, sir. I didn’t know you were in a meeting. My apologies.”
Poor though it was, this example of wit was still sufficient to summon a chorus of guffaws from the hallway. Stohl sank into the corner and tried to shield his swollen face.
Zedillo, who had taken beatings nearly every day of his rather truncated childhood, shook his head in disgust. “Get a grip, General—what will your officers think? Besides, we’re gonna have a parade—and
you
get to lead it! Nifty, huh?”
Zedillo turned. “O’Dell! Get your ass in here! The general needs a hand.”
Stohl whimpered as the mutineers dragged him out of the cell and down the hallway. Other officers, confined to cells on either side of the corridor, watched in silence.
One of Algeron’s supershort nights passed into day as a line of artillery shells marched down off a low-lying hill, exploded with the same ruthless efficiency as the computer that controlled them, and hurled fountains of dirt high into the air.
Kattabi waited for the barrage to end, strolled out of the CP, and nodded to a sentry. “How’s it goin’, Hays? Better keep your head down. Those idiots might get lucky.”
Hays laughed, just as she was supposed to, and told Corporal Laskin. He told Sergeant Mutu—and the entire battalion had the story within the hour.
“Yup,” everyone agreed, “there ain’t nothin’ that bothers the old man, ’cept cold tea, and stupid orders.”
None of which would have surprised Kattabi, who knew that the troops took a considerable amount of comfort from such anecdotes, and tried to keep them happy.
Major Kitty Kirby frowned as her boss wriggled up next to her, produced his binoculars, and scanned the distant fort. She considered Kattabi’s predilection for leading from the front to be admirable, but somewhat misguided, given how important he was. She couldn’t say that, however, not to his face, so she made room instead. “Welcome to the Hotel Algeron, General. Where the days are short, the nights are cold, and the accommodations suck.”
Kattabi’s response was lost as the fort’s well-sited artillery fired another mission. The shells soared over the officers’ heads, landed half a mile t
o the rear, and made the ground shake. The General lowered his glasses. He yelled to be heard. “So, Kitty, what do you think?”
Kirby was as different from her commanding officer as night is from day. She had been born into a prosperous merchant family, attended the academy, and graduated with honors. But, unlike some of her peers, she respected officers like Kattabi. “I think they’re letting the computers run the show. This latest barrage lacks the kind of finesse that a true dyed-in-the-wool arty officer would toss in. Stuff like backtracking, leapfrogging, and just plain guessing.”
Kattabi grinned. “My thoughts exactly. Assuming the red legs survived, they’re locked in a cell. Some noncom is calling the shots and doing it by the book. And why not? They have intel from our spy sats and know we won’t fire on them. Not with all those prisoners... not if we can avoid it. How ’bout deserters? Have you seen any more?”
Kirby nodded. “Yes, sir. Twenty of them went over the wall about an hour ago. Half were killed in the minefield, sentries nailed two of them, and the rest made it to safety. That’s more than forty so far. We can thank DeVane for that. He’s crazy, and the muties know it.”
Kattabi shrugged. “He’s got problems... but so have we.”
Kirby nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The voice belonged to com tech Salan. Dog-Six to Dog-One. Over.”
Kattabi touched his ear and spoke into the wire-thin boom mike. “Dog-One... go.”