Arnold turned back to Bozyk, trying to burn into her with a malevolent gaze. “Where did you get your information? Anti-corporationist spies?”
“Spies, yes. The corporate kind,” Bozyk replied, unruffled. “Omni-corp’s rivals were more than happy to help us. Their radio reports reached us a lot faster than your ship could. We’ve had your psychological profile for almost twelve years. We have files on all your men.” She favored Schott with a smile. “Even you, Bull.”
“None of that changes anything,” Arnold replied, straining to sound icy cool. “My troops have occupied the capital, and I am taking control of New Venture.”
“Your troops are in the capital, but I’m not so sure they’re occupying it anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Bozyk stepped over to the picture window. She gestured at a large estate visible below. In the center of a long, immaculate lawn stood a massive, pillared palace. The “R” crest glinted in the sun above the front steps. Dozens of smaller yet equally pristine houses ringed the estate.
“By now, most of your ‘Marines’ on New Venture have been told about their new homes.” Bozyk pointed to one particularly ornate house surrounded by a small grove of drooping trees. “That one’s yours, Bull, if you want it. Does it look familiar? We modeled it after the commandant’s quarters at Fort Eisner. You always admired that house, didn’t you?”
Schott rubbed his chin. “It looks a hell of a lot nicer than a barracks, that’s for sure.”
Arnold could see figures—many of them clad in olive drab—moving up and down the streets between the homes. “I want a status report, Sgt. Schott.”
Schott turned around slowly. From the look on his face, Arnold couldn’t tell if he was going to speak or spit.
“O.K., sir,” Schott said. He flicked on his helmet mike. “Feiffer. Feiffer, report. Feiffer! Damas. Damas, are you there? Goldberg, check in. Goldberg?” He shook his head. “Sorry, sir.”
“Now you understand your hero’s welcome,” Bozyk said to Arnold. “You are our savior—from Omnicorp. All you have to do is join us and become a revered citizen of New Venture.”
Schott waggled a thumb over his shoulder. “You built all that for us?” Bozyk nodded. “Yes. It was expensive, but cheaper than our freedom… or who knows how many lives.”
Schott grunted.
Arnold knew he’d lost him. He was losing all his men, all his power. But he still had his Pocket Nukes—and his nerves of steel. He worked up a sneer.
“It’s a trap, Sgt. Schott. You’re a fool if you can’t see that,” Arnold said. He slid his compad out of his field jacket. “Fortunately, I don’t need the help of fools to subdue this planet. The nuclear devastation I hold at my fingertips is all the help I need.”
Bozyk’s cool facade finally cracked. “Please, no!”
Schott swung his rifle off his shoulder—and pointed it at Arnold. “Don’t do it, Amlingmeyer.”
Arnold let his thumb caress the firing key. “The name is Rook. And I don’t take orders from mutinous sergeants.”
Bozyk took a wobbly step towards Arnold. “Please, you have to believe me. It’s not a trap,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Perhaps you could convince me of that. But it really doesn’t matter if it’s a trap or not,” Arnold replied. “You must submit to my authority… or watch half your population vaporized.”
“You wouldn’t!” Schott spat.
Arnold returned the soldier’s scornful gaze. He held it for a long moment until… There! He saw it! Fear.
“Push that button and I’ll blow your damn head off,” Schott said. His words came out too loud and fast and shrill to hide his fright. “I mean it! I’ll kill you!”
Arnold looked back at Bozyk. She had dropped to her knees. She was pleading with him.
“I beg you, have mercy,” she said. “Have mercy on us, Commander Rook.”
Arnold drank in the raw dread on her face, savoring it. This was the moment he’d always dreamed of. This was his destiny!
He was satisfied.
New Venture was always fond of its “dictator.” The citizens bowed to him as he paraded down the streets of the capital. He got the best seat in any restaurant or tavern he entered, and the food and drink didn’t stop coming until he was completely satisfied. Merchants competed for the honor of supplying him with free goods and services. Most fierce of all was the competition over his clothes. Every tailor and would-be designer on the planet wanted to claim credit for Commander Rook’s uniforms, which he updated every spring.
The government treated him with deference, too. He opened every session of parliament (after a grand entrance and a short speech) with the whack of a ceremonial gavel. And he received private briefings from the presidents—first Bozyk, then Mendelsohn, then Schott.
“Ex-cellent,” he would say at some bit of news. Or “You have done well.” Or “I am pleased.” Or he would just nod and look thoughtful.
Sometimes he would offer advice, but as the years went by only the complex haggling over the state budget really interested him. Occasionally his ideas were even good.
Not every Venturian treated him with respect, of course. Some couldn’t conceal their derisive grins. They would snicker or make sarcastic comments in his presence.
But his grave, dignified mien never faltered. He would just go a little glassy-eyed, as if he no longer saw the people around him but was instead looking at something that had happened long ago, something infinitely more important. Sometimes he would pat the empty pocket of his uniform tunic or rub his thumb slowly over his forefinger, as if stroking some invisible key. Then he would smile his prim little smile and return to the palace.