The Forever Hero (19 page)
Authors: Jr. L. E. Modesitt
Commander Byykr leaned back in the swivel. With his considerable additional bulk on the joints, it creaked.
Gerswin stood at attention.
“Sit down, Major. Or stand, whatever you want, whatever's comfortable. I know you're not the sitting type. Strange officer you are, young man and old man, patient and impatient.”
The green eyes that peered from the rounded frame of the base executive officer were the man's sole sharp feature, the only hint of intensity.
His soft voice continued, as Gerswin relaxed slightly and settled into the straight-backed chair opposite the corner of the commander's console.
“This is the second year in a row you've requested assignment to a combat position, and I'm going to recommend that your request be denied. Before I do, I'm going to tell you why, and I hope you will understand. My decision, of course, is not final, but the commanding officer usually takes my recommendation, and the recommendations of commanding officers are rarely overturned.”
Gerswin nodded without speaking.
“Do you have anything to say at this point?”
“No, ser. Like to hear your reasons.”
“You don't seem terribly surprised, and I'm not surprised that you aren't. I wouldn't even be surprised if you had put in this request merely for the purposes of declaring your loyalty. I won't put that to the test, nor will I attempt to find out if your request is a bluff. For your sake, I almost hope it is, because the stakes are far higher than I suspect you understand. You belong here, not in combat, unlike Captain Hermer, who is now a major, by the way, and who was kept here far longer than she should have been.”
Gerswin shifted his weight slightly, but did not turn his eyes from the commander.
Byykr coughed twice and leaned forward in the swivel, which creaked as he moved, and turned in his seat to look at the mural to his left, and to Gerswin's right. The often reproduced holoview was that of the Academy Spire, mirrored in Crystal Lake.
Byykr's sharp green eyes came back to rest on the younger major.
“In some ways, Major, you would have been better as a chief tech, but you're too aggressive and quick for that. I'm not being critical, but you have the kind of understanding and technical competence that is usually provided to the Service by its technicians. I'm told by those who should know that you can probably rebuild a flitter from the deck up, and that you know biologics better than all but the best of the ecologists.
“I wouldn't know how much farther your abilities go, but I do know they go farther than any other officer on this base today. That kind of knowledge in a line officer will make you invaluable as someone's executive officer someday, but, combined with your skill as a pilot, it makes you extraordinarily dangerous to the standard political-type officer. And outside of the field bases, like Old Earth here, most commanding officers are usually political types. Why do you think that mortality is so high in combat? Noâdon't try to answer that. It wasn't meant for an answer.”
Byykr cleared his throat and continued. “I hope you can understand the point I'm making.”
“It would seem that my career is at a dead end. The more I learn, the more dangerous I become, and the less likely I am to ever leave.”
“That's possible. But it doesn't mean that your career is ended. You'll doubtless become the operations officer, probably as soon as Vlerio leaves next year, both of which I've already recommended. After a tour or a little more in that slot, if you don't retire, and I'd certainly recommend against that for you, you'll become the base executive officer, and probably, by that time, the odds-on favorite for base commandant.”
“But I'll never leave Old Earth on a Service tour, is that it? Why not?”
“Simple. You know too much, and you're far too good a pilot, and a good leader, even if you are a loner. You get assigned to combat, and with your record, any combat coordinator would give at least his right arm to have you as a heavy corvette or destroyer commander. The problem is that you'd get assigned the suicide missions. You're good enough to survive most of them.
“That means they'd start dumping you with missions they'd like to have done, but couldn't delude themselves into believing anyone could pull off. From the point of view of the Service, that would be a disaster.”
“Disaster?”
“Absolutely.” Byyker coughed once. “Every young hotblood would be trying to beat your record, and all of them would die, along
with a lot of innocent crews. If you survived yourself, the Service might never recover from your example, and even if you didn't, they'd have to award you the Emperor's Cross posthumously, which would inspire too many others to emulate you.
“So any good, experienced, political officer would immediately assign you a dirty quiet job guaranteed to kill you and your ship. Without any gain to the Empire and without any publicity. That's too much of a waste of talent, even for an old cynic like me.
“Besides, you're doing a good job here. Things get done. People are happy, for the most part, when by all rights they ought to be miserable. We old goats can complete a tour here and retire with a pat on the back. So you stay.”
Gerswin smiled a wry smile. “You aren't totally encouraging.”
“That comes later. What I'm trying to make clear is that the combat service represents a form of suicide for you, at least in a conflict environment like the present.”
“And it doesn't for Major Hermer?”
“Not as much. For reasons embedded in the psychology of the race, most commanders don't regard women as a personal and physical threat, unless the commander is female. Then, there are still few enough top women commanders that they need to nurture every possible ally for their own future.
“My hopes for the major are that by the time she's recognized for her abilities either this war is over, and that should be soon from the spacio-political outlines I've seen, or she will have been promoted or otherwise protected by a political officer type with enough brains to see what an asset she can be.
“You, on the other hand, are not a team player, even though you build better teams than any officer I've ever had the privilege of supervising. You are goal-oriented, and nothing seems to stop you, except death, and one gets the feeling you've already bought him off.”
The commander swiveled to look at Gerswin directly. He cleared his throat and coughed, louder this time, blocking the cough with his clenched and pudgy fist.
“I know, Major, you've got nearly twenty-five years in service, but these days careers of fifty aren't uncommon, and there's no mandatory retirement age. All you have to do is pass the stress physical every year. I won't, according to my private med source. But you, you've got plenty of time, and who knows? I could be wrong. Maybe you can convince my successor, if you want.
“By then, in any case, this Dismorph thing will be over, and at least it will be harder for a political type to use you as an expendable.”
Gerswin nodded for what seemed the tenth time in the largely one-sided conversation.
“Understand your points, Commander.”
“Now,” continued the executive officer, “you can appeal, which will leave a record in the files, or you can wait until next year, and resubmit without prejudice in the annual career plan order request submissions.”
“I'll have to think about next year when the times comes. No appeal now.”
“Do you have any other questions, Major?”
“None you haven't already answered, ser.”
The swivel creaked as the hulking, white-haired officer eased himself to his feet and offered his hand to Gerswin.
Gerswin snapped to his own feet and took the proffered handshake.
“It's been a pleasure to watch what you can do, Major, and I hope to be able to continue watching for a while.”
“Thank you, Commander. Based on your advice and observations, I expect I'll be doing the same type of job for a time to come.”
“I hope so, Major. I hope so.”
Gerswin stiffened into full attention.
“That's all, Major.”
As Gerswin left, behind him he heard the creak of the overtaxed swivel as the commander replaced himself in it.
H.M.S.
Black Prince
MacGregor C. Gerswin, Major, I.S.S.
Old Earth Base
I.S.D.C. 1212
New Augusta, Sector III
Dear Greg,
I thought about sending you a cube, but this is quicker and more certain. In my vanity, I thought you might have heard about the
difficulties we had to surmount here last week. If not, you should get the whole story some time, but not, for the reasons of official censorship, from me.
Enough to say that we came through all right, although a measure of that is that I was among the more junior COs (that's right, commanding officer of my very own Imperial corvette) of the squadron, and now am the senior commander of a rather less impressive squadron, led by the
Black Prince
. What you taught me helped a lot, and so did the skipper of the
Graystone
. (Rumor has it that he was the only Academy graduate not from Old Earth ever to come close to your record in piloting at New Colora.) His family will probably receive the Imperial Cross. Never have I seen such incredible coverage from such a small ship. They say it was a corvette, but looked more like an armed scout to me.
I wish I could tell you what's likely to happen next, but now that everyone understands the situation, I expect our operations will become more measured and deal from our strength. In a way, I feel sorry for the Dismorphs, but not sorry enough. Without the
Graystone
, and, I admit to some degree, the little we were able to accomplish, we might not be here to talk about the next offensive.
Enough said about it. We could have used you, but had you been where you really could have been used, none of this might have happened. I know that's cryptic, but let's leave it at that.
Surprisingly, I miss Old Earth. Not just you, although I can't delude myself into believing that isn't a big factor, but the planet itself, for all the grayness, the winds, the ice rains, and the cold, cold, and cold. It was home to our ancestors for a long, long time. Out here, or should I say, in here, where the stars spray together like clouds in the night skies, Earth seems so far away, and yet important that it should be reclaimed for what it was. I once thought that it ought to remain as it stands as a memorial to human stupidity, but that will always be with usâ¦.
The console is blinking red in three points, and I'll close because who knows when I'll be able to steal another few minutes, and I do want to get this off to you. I regret nothing, except that I didn't
have the nerve to come to you earlier, but you have made a light where there was none, and the path ahead is brighter for it.
My love,
Faith
The major glanced toward the open doorway, then stood, brushing back the swivel, and leaving the torp fax flimsy on the flat working surface of the console.
Thud!
The old-fashioned door shuddered in its frame with the force he had imparted.
The flimsy fluttered off the console in a back-and-forth sideways flight before diving to the floor behind the swivel.
The major retrieved the message before it had finally settled, holding it firmly in his left hand.
He read it again, knowing he had not overlooked anything, centering his attention on the last paragraph.
“â¦In addition to next-of-kin, Major Hermer's Form DN-12 requested you be notified under clause 3(b), principal-at-interest⦔
His eyes skipped upward toward the beginning.
“â¦in the most honorable tradition of the Empireâ¦Major Faith X. Hermerâ¦awarded the Emperor's Star (posthumously)â¦action beyond the call of duty⦔
The words spilled through his mind like the spring run-off of the Great West River, roaring past him without meaning. He placed the single flimsy back on the console.
His feet carried him in a tight circle in front of the console. Two, three circuits, and he reversed direction automatically, feet moving him back around the circle, though he could hear the whispers from outside the closed door.
Twenty minutes ago, he had been reviewing a recon pattern for the southeast basin when a junior tech had tiptoed in and placed the flimsy on his console, bowing and scraping the whole three meters from door to console and the whole three meters back from console to door.
The major stopped his circling and took a single deep breath, then another, clenching and unclenching his fists, tightening the muscles in his forearms, loosening them. The inside of his left forearm brushed his waistband and the hardness behind it.
Without volition, the throwing knife was in his left hand.
Thunk!
Heavy and impenetrable as the plastic of the door was, it could not resist the knife buried there to half its depth.
He walked to the door, slowly eased out the heavy blade and replaced it in the waist sheath.
He opened the door deliberately, not looking back at the flimsy on the console and stepped outside his small office into the general Operations area.
Two of the techs at the end of the nearest row of consoles failed to look away quickly enough, but the major ignored them as he marched toward the duty console.
Frylar, Technician First Class, said nothing, waiting.
“Tell Vlerioâ¦be back later. Sick leaveâ¦if necessary. Need air. Be outside.”
He stepped away, conscious of the faint click of his boots in the envelope of silence that seemed to surround him as he hurried toward the southwest lock doors.
Mechanically, his hands touched the correct studs, and he passed through the inner door, and, in turn, through the outer portal, and into the rain.
Rain sleeted from the low clouds, not cold enough to fall in ice droplets, instantaneously soaking the thin gray indoor tunic.
The man ignored the chill, and the cold passed from his awareness as if it had never been. His long strides carried him toward the practice yard.
He held throwing knives in each hand, advancing on the rainswept targets as if they were the enemy.
Thunk!
Thunk!
He recovered his weapons and stepped back, three steps, four, five, six, turning, hefting them as if to drive them through the plastic coated foam of the target heads.
Thunk!
Thunk!
The thin wail of the wind inched toward a shriek as the storm center neared the Imperial bunkers crouched under their cover of stone and heavy clay.
Thunk!
Thunk!
The rain sheets became waterfalls pouring from gray oceans overhead.
Thunk!
Thunk!
The wind shrieked like a corvette with its screens wrenched apart, and the waterfalls became solid walls of water from which the major emerged, still hefting the knives that seemed to cut through the storm itself, ignoring the calf-high torrents that pulled at him.
Thunk!
Thunk!
