Major Fitzhugh was a rare Shareholder. He’d volunteered for active service. He had actually gone through boot camp with a sea of Vat conscripts for three whole weeks, before a shocked camp-commander had come and personally hauled him out and sent him to Officer Candidate School. Even that hadn’t stopped Fitzhugh from getting a front-line posting, where he was supposed to be conveniently fragged or get killed by the Magh’. When he’d failed their expectations, they’d “promoted” him here.
A hearty laugh came from behind the general’s door. The beautiful relic-of-Earth polished oak door opened, revealing the joyous sight of the general affably slapping the shoulder of a brigadier with a large curling handlebar moustache. “Heh, heh! I must remember that one, Charlie, old boy. ‘And the Vat said . . .’ Ho, ho! Jolly good. I must remember that one.”
The general caught sight of the waiting major and his expression turned to one of distaste. With pride Fitzhugh successfully kept a poker expression while saluting.
“I’ll be seeing you, Charlie. Come in, Major Fitzhugh.” The general’s tone of voice shifted between the thought of a pleasant afternoon’s golf and root-canal work in the span of two short sentences.
The major went into the sumptuous office. It always struck him that Carrot-up put up with the army, but really yearned for cavalry. The gilt-framed horsey pictures that lightened the rich maroon wallpaper certainly showed where the general’s interest lay. There was enough expensive horsey-leather hung about the place to start a tack shop. A very exclusive tack shop.
A willowy captain in an elegant tailored uniform leaned an idle elbow on a tasseled velvet-upholstered chair. Although it was just ten-thirty in the morning, the room reeked of whiskey and cigars. Fitzhugh hoped like hell the ambience wouldn’t make Ariel sneeze. The decanter and glasses on the acres of gleaming desk bore mute evidence to a hard morning’s war-planning.
“The week’s intelligence reports, sir.” Fitzhugh attempted to hand them to the general.
“Don’t give them to me, for God’s sake. Give them to Captain Hargreaves. Why you can’t just leave them with Daisy, I don’t know.” The general flopped into his leather-upholstered lounger.
The captain reached a languid hand for the dun folder. Fitz gave him the full benefit of the bad side of his face. With sudden insight, Fitz realized he must have looked like that once. Tall. Blond. Blue-eyed. Features carvedly aquiline and aristocratic.
Bah. Wet tissue paper.
In the glare of Fitzhugh’s arctic gaze the aide wilted. The reaching hand pulled back.
“I must discuss certain aspects of this with you, sir,” said Fitz.
“Oh, you must, must you?” demanded the general mockingly.
Fitz chose to ignore the sarcasm. “Yes, sir. I must. Satellite imaging shows that the concentration of Magh’ troops in sector Delta 355 has diminished. This is the ideal time . . .”
The solidly larded general stood up. He was as tall as Fitzhugh. He pulled the painstakingly prepared reports from the major’s hand; tossed the dun folder into a scatter of mixed papers on the floor in the far corner; and then turned his back on the intelligence officer.
Fitz wondered if his knuckles or the shaft of the bangstick would go first. Carrot-up had him pegged perfectly. He would not give in and stab the man in the back.
The general turned around. “Now hear this, Major who is on the verge of becoming a captain. You presume too much. Understand this. You do not ever again presume to advise me on military matters. You have no grasp of military strategy and your opinions are of no interest or value to high command. Your job is to organize the data the Korozhet’s probes bring to us. That’s all. Do I make myself clear?”
Fitz restrained himself. He didn’t scream “but it’s a lot of fucking crap!” His one disciplinary hearing to date had been for daring to question Korozhet data. Events had proved him perfectly correct, and the Korozhet data misleading, but that had been beside the point to the tribunal. “Sir.”
“As for that withdrawal, I’ve already been informed. It is a feint. Since Shaw’s death I have been given the honor of having a Korozhet adviser myself. Now, pick up those pieces of paper and give them to Daisy on your way out. Hargreaves, you and I must get on with planning that parade to celebrate our Korozhet allies’ return after their victory over that sneak attack by those other aliens. What are they called again, Hargreaves?”