Starfist: Firestorm (30 page)

“Don’t worry, Hammer,” Bass said into Schultz’s ear, “we’ll catch them.”

Schultz grunted.

“Then you’ll do what needs to be done.”

Schultz made as though to spit, but didn’t.

“How’s your back doing?”

Schultz grunted again, but there seemed to be a word hidden in it: “Hurts.”

“This war’s almost over, Hammer. Then we’ll get some proper care for your back. You’ll be back to your normal irascible self by the time we get back to Camp Ellis.”

Schultz turned a gimlet eye on Bass, a look that had made many strong men blanch and back off. Bass didn’t budge. “Right,” Schultz snarled, and turned back to stare after the fleeing convoy. But he stopped drumming his fingers on the cab roof, and some of the tension eased out of his body. The Marines nearby began to breathe more easily.

Not long after that, the retreating army reached the prepared positions outside Austen. General Cazombi arrayed his army in front of the defenders.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

General Davis Lyons sighed. There was only one thing left for him to do. The terrible devastation his army had suffered on its move to the Cumbers had reduced his combat strength enormously. What happened to his air-defense capability, he wondered. Well, he could not hold out much longer. “Rags?”

“Sir?” Colonel Rene Raggel had been standing nearby watching his commander stare at the trid overlay of his opponent’s dispositions around the town of Austen. The command center was oddly hushed, each man’s senses attuned to the lull that had fallen over the fighting. It was as if the army now confronting them had paused in its forward advance to take a deep breath, and was flexing its powerful muscles one more time in preparation for its inevitable, inexorably overwhelming assault. All eyes not on the enormous screen were on their commander. Even the lowest-ranking enlisted man in the center knew what was coming.

“Rags, get Admiral DeGauss, the rest of my staff, and as many of my commanders as can come on such short notice, and have them assemble here. Get President Summers and his cabinet too. While you’re doing that”—General Lyons reached into a cargo pocket and took out a Davidoff—“I am going into my little cubicle and smoke this here last cigar.” He bit the end off the cigar, grinned, and parted the curtains to his private retreat.

“Ted, Balca, gentlemen,” Cazombi addressed his staff. They were headquartered in abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the little town of Austen in the foothills of the Cumber Mountains. It was a brilliant day. Sunlight gleamed off the snowcapped summits of the taller peaks ranged in serried rows beyond and above the town. “I want the army to stand down.”

A soft murmur ran through the assembled officers. “Sir, we’re ready to mount the final assault,” Major General Sorca ventured. He had been given the job of deputy army commander upon Billie’s relief, a position he filled with great efficiency because it required no decision making on his part.

Brigadier Ted Sturgeon had been temporarily assigned as Cazombi’s chief of staff. “I think I know what’s coming, Balca,” he said. “Unless you want to lead the first assault wave.” He grinned at Sorca, who winced but remained silent.

A sign of good humor, a slight muscle spasm, creased Cazombi’s face. “I think old Davis Lyons has had it. I’m going to sit here for a while and see if he takes the hint. I don’t fancy frontal assaults on fortified positions, especially when the enemy occupies the high ground. Ted, pass the word to our combat commanders to stand fast until further notice. Now, gentlemen”—he produced a box of cigars—“General Billie left these behind when he, er, departed. They’re Clintons but they’ll smoke. Help yourselves, light up, and take it easy for a while. We may have a little wait before us.”

“I am going to request surrender terms,” General Lyons announced to the assembled staff and government officials. The military men uttered a sigh of relief, and some even smiled, but the Coalition cabinet officers, all but Preston Summers, blanched at the announcement and protested loudly.

“Gen’ral, that leaves our asses hangin’ out high an’ dry!” the finance minister protested. He’d had no part in anything since the war had started, but as a high-ranking official of that government and a coward, he was worried about being arrested as a rebel. Several other cabinet officials protested loudly.

“Gentlemen, pipe down,” Preston Summers demanded. “You was all in favor of goin’ to war with the Confederation an’ Gen’ral Lyons here, he warned us first off that we could never win. An’ now we all know the incident at Fort Seymour was a gawdam setup.” His voice turned bitter now and his face flushed. “It’s time to ante up and take our knocks. Gen’ral,” he said, turning to Lyons, “save what’s left of your army and get the best terms you kin. For me, I only ask for an escort out of these mountains. I want to go home an’ drink some o’ my bourbon before they haul me off to jail.” He paused. “Oh, one more thing.” He handed Lyons a small box. “Here’s some Davidoffs. You deserve ’em, an’ mebbe you kin take ’em along with you to jail.”

General Lyons, Admiral DeGauss, and Colonel Raggel stood in the center of General Cazombi’s command center. “I am Alistair Cazombi, General, this is Ted Sturgeon.” They shook hands all round.

“I am here to surrender my army, General, and end this fighting. I only ask for fair terms for my men under the articles of war.”

Cazombi regarded Lyons carefully. “Yes. Well, I only wish we’d met under more pleasant circumstances, General.”

“As do I, sir,” Lyons responded.

“Well, all right.” Cazombi glanced at his officers. “Here are my terms, if you’ll accept them. Return to your army and have your men stand down all military operations at once. We will make arrangements to transport your men and their equipment to their home worlds—”

“Uh, you mean their weapons and equipment?” Lyons asked.

“Yes, General. But first each will sign an oath of allegiance to the Confederation and promise never to take up arms against us again. When we round up your politicians, I’ll do the same with them. Once all this is properly taken care of, will you and your staff join me and mine in a farewell dinner? We got bigger fish to fry and have to be on our way, now that this little unpleasantness is over.”

Lyons nodded. “Those terms are most fair and honorable, General. I must tell you though, I have proof that the incident at Fort Seymour, the tragedy that sparked the Ordinance of Secession and started this war, was a setup by some of our politicians. Our people fired the first shot.”

Cazombi raised an eyebrow, an expression, for him, of great surprise. “So. Well, General, that is your problem. Deal with the varmints as you see fit.”

Now it was Lyons’s turn to be surprised. He nodded his agreement. “One more thing, sir. Our children are suffering from a variety of TB. You have developed not only a vaccine but a cure. Can you please get that stuff to us as quickly as possible, now the war’s over?”

“You bet. Have your surgeon get with mine and we’ll have the medicine shipped in immediately.” He offered his hand. “You fought a good fight, General.” They shook. “Since every soldier is measured by his enemies, you make me look like some tough sumbitch. Now if you’ll go back to your army and make the arrangements, I’ll have my judge advocate get with yours to draw up the formal surrender terms. I’ll need the president of your coalition to cosign them.”

“He’s already left, sir, gone home to get drunk.” Lyons chuckled.

“Can’t say as I blame him. Well, I’ll send someone over to his place when you and I have signed the terms.”

“Oh, I almost forgot, General,” Lyons said, reaching into a cargo pocket. “President Summers gave me this travel humidor before he left. There are five fresh Davidoffs in there. I want you to have them.”

“Well, thank you, General.”

“Sir? One final question?” Cazombi nodded. “What happened to your General Billie?”

Cazombi did not answer at once. He stood there, turning the humidor over in his hands. “Well,” he responded at last, “he went on home, just like you and I are going to do.”

After Lyons and his party had departed, Cazombi gestured for Sturgeon to join him in private. “Earlier today I received this back-channel message from Marcus Berentus. I thought you’d be interested in knowing what it says: ‘Defeated worlds
must
be allowed to defend themselves when returned home. You are herewith ordered to return to Earth as soon as hostilities are concluded to face a court of inquiry into your conduct.’” Cazombi shrugged. “I’d have let Lyons’s troops take all their weapons with them anyway.”

“Billie’s been busy.” Sturgeon grimaced.

“Yep. To be expected. Ted, I’m not going to involve you in this mess.” He held up a hand as Sturgeon began to protest. “You take your Marines home and drink a lot of beer and eat a mountain of that reindeer steak you’re always bragging about. I’ll face this inquiry on my own. Besides,” he said, and broke into an actual grin, “I have this get-out-of-jail card.” He produced another back channel. “It sez, ‘Good job. Senate asked to confirm your fourth star’ and it’s signed by President Chang-Sturdevant, Ted. Long as I got that old girl in my corner, I can give the Marines a rest.”

“Sound an alarm, your sil-ver trumpets sound, and call the brave, and on-ly brave, and on-ly brave a-round.”
The rich tenor voice filled Preston Summer’s music room. More than half the contents of the bourbon bottle on the side table were gone and he was feeling no pain. “What a way to go,” he muttered, his head wreathed in a rich cloud of cigar smoke. “Nuttin’ like a little Handel to get a handle on…”
On what?
he wondered. What had this mess come to? The government had dispersed, each slobbering politician with his tail between his legs running for his worthless life.

But he was home at last. No one was there, of course. Summers had long before sent his family and household staff to a remote corner of Ravenette where they’d be out of the fighting. The empty halls echoed his footfalls as he walked through the house. Dust lay everywhere, the furniture covered by white linens, reminding him of a mortuary. That thought made him smile.
“Sic transit gloria mundi,”
he said with a sigh.

He poured himself another glass of bourbon. “To you, Mr. Handel.” He toasted the soaring music.

“Jus-tice with courage, jus-tice with courage, is a thou-sand men,”
the voice sang. Summers shook his head. Courage they’d had all right, but justice? No justice after what Lyons had found out about the incident at Fort Seymour. The bitterest disappointment about the war for Preston Summers was not that it was lost but that nobody would ever believe he didn’t know about the plot.
Well, that’s how the chips fall
, he thought, and finished the drink in one huge gulp. The only consolation—and the only courage—he had now was of the liquid variety.

A tremendous roar penetrated from the front of the house, the unmistakable thunder of military vehicles drawing up outside. “Damn,” Summers muttered, getting unsteadily to his feet, “didn’t take ’em long to get here.” He straightened his clothes and brushed off the dust. He patted his vest. Yes, he had a few cigars in there. Would they let him keep them? Maybe not. He opened the humidor and stuffed more into his pockets. He paused, considering. “Ah, Mohammed’s golden toilet water,” he mumbled after a moment. “A peace offering never hurts. Hope those boys are smokers.” He thought they would be. He’d heard that Marines love good cigars. Sticking the humidor under one arm and squaring his shoulders, he walked slowly, ponderously, but with dignity toward the front door which was now being vigorously assaulted by a pounding fist.

He paused. “What a way to go, out on Mr. Handel!” He fumbled for the control in his pocket and turned the volume up on the music until the dust on the floor began to spurt in little fountains. “Sing it out, Georgie, you old bastard,” he shouted to the empty house. “Sound the trum-pets! Beat the drums! See, the conq’ring he-ro comes!”

The knocking persisted. Staggering a little, Summers flung the door open to see a Marine colonel in dress reds standing on the threshold. “Mr. Preston Summers, late President of the Coalition of Independent Worlds?” the colonel asked.

“The shame, er, I mean, the same!” Summers blinked and swayed slightly. “I am yer prishoner, sir,” he announced with drunken gravity.

“Sir, I am Colonel Festus Grimaldi, General Alistair Cazombi’s judge advocate, and I have something here I wish you to sign. General Lyons has already signed. It is your army’s capitulation. May we go inside?” He paused and tilted his head to one side. “Wonderful music, sir. Handel, isn’t it?”

Late that night Cazombi and Sturgeon sat sipping whiskey and smoking one of the Davidoffs General Lyons had given Cazombi.

“Al, despite the president’s support, our asses are grass and the Confederation Congress is the lawn mower. You’ll never get away with letting Lyons and his men go like this, and you know sure as death Billie’s filed charges of mutiny against both of us. And there are those politicians in the Confederation Congress, sitting safe in session back on Earth, they’ll want your head for being so generous with these people.” Despite himself, Sturgeon had to laugh. “But by the Virgin’s hangnails, I’m glad to be along with you for that long, long slide down the razor blade of life!”