The captain was in surgery even now, as they grafted a new and better bionic hand onto him.
General Hawthorne had been dazed by the audacity of the attack, the bloody-handedness and slyness of it. It smacked of Chief Yezhov.
Right away, he noticed the rest of Bunker Command turning restive, wary, as if he had an incurable disease. Oh, at first, they made protesting noises about the immorality of the attack, but it seemed more as a matter of form than genuine passion. They soon checked themselves, and seemed to calculate their words, as if they were being recorded for posterity. Or maybe for some PHC officer later who tested their loyalty to Social Unity.
An unasked question seemed to hover on everyone’s lips. If PHC could reach the General and his staff, whom couldn’t they touch?
Fortunately, his dazedness didn’t last.
A march to his private office, throwing open the bottom drawer and lifting the bottle of vodka there and a tumbler had begun the healing. He poured himself a stiff jolt and tossed it down. His eyes bulged as the warmth blossomed in his gut. He poured himself another. He blinked several times, the dazed, unreal feeling draining from him. In its place came a cold clarity.
He set the tumbler and bottle on the desk. He went to his private closet, rummaging in the back until he found his old belt and holster. He strapped it on, looping the one belt over his right shoulder and hooking it to the belt around his waist. He slapped the holster. In it was a small gun, but brutal, a short-barrel .44 that shot exploding slugs.
He marched to the command center. People grew quiet. A few noticed the holster, although no one commented. He stalked about until they went back to work. Then he eavesdropped, trying to gage how far they would step out for him, for him personally.
With his new clarity, he was shocked to realize that it wasn’t very far at all. Maybe six months ago right after the asteroid attacks they would have. Today… some muttered about PHC’s latest purge. It was called the Anti-Rightist Purification. Rightist in SU jargon usually meant capitalists when referring to Outer Planets people or the military when talking about Inner Planets. It came to him that he’d been so concerned about his proton beams and merculite missiles that he’d forgotten to worry about the home front.
Theoretically, of course, all power in Inner Planets stemmed from the Directorate, the nine that guided the people through the principles of Social Unity. Also in theory, each director was equal. In fact, some were more equal than others were. Since the dictatorial days of the late Lord Director Enkov, Blanche-Aster had taken the mantle of leadership. In deference to her position, she bore the title: Madam Blanche-Aster. She deemed the title inoffensive but still original to her and signifying the manner of her guidance. “I am the mother of humanity,” she was fond of saying. “And as a mother I wish to be gentle but firm, unwavering as I uphold Social Unity.”
She backed him, and she forced the rest of the Directorate to do likewise.
A call two hours later showed him yet another crack in his position. Fortunately, he took the call in a side room, a communications center.
“General Hawthorne?”
“Yes, Director.”
The man in the wavering holo-image sat in a chair. He was a big man, a Venusian, and he wore an old-fashioned bond lord uniform. He had a square face and a blunt nose, with sagging jowls that wobbled as he spoke. He was seventy-five and he was therefore the youngest and most physically active of the Directorate.
Director Gannel swept a big beefy hand in a theatrical gesture. Heavy brass rings encircled each finger. He loved to strike poses as he spoke. It was an old habit from his hall leader days in the thorium mines.
Director Gannel had arrived several months ago from Venus. His was a daring tale of braving the Highborn space blockade of his terraformed planet and slipping onto an “open” farm hab orbiting Earth. From there he’d taken a grain transport down to Australia Sector and slipped aboard one of Earth’s last submarines and to India. In the readjustments that had occurred after the late Lord Director’s death, Gannel had skillfully maneuvered his way onto a director’s chair.
“Then the rumors aren’t true,” said Gannel.
“Rumors?” asked Hawthorne.
His jowls wobbled as Gannel smiled, showing big white teeth so obviously false that they made him look like a vampire.
You want to suck my blood, you obscene old plotter.
“Why, General, it’s been said that you were shot.”
“How very interesting,” said Hawthorne. “And who was the supposed shooter?”
“Why, I don’t know,” said Director Gannel.
“You do seem surprised to see me alive.”
The holo-image shimmered. HB jamming and the incredibly bad storms since the asteroid attacks had adversely effected communications. Soon the image settled down.
“Yes! I am surprised,” Gannel said. “Surprised that anyone would be fool enough to joke with me. To tell me you were dead.”
“Well, then, Director, if that’s all. It’s been a pleasure, of course, speaking with you.”
“Wait a minute, General. Now that I have you online there’s something, well, I hope I haven’t heard two wrong rumors in one day. But there’s talk that you plan to prematurely order the Bangladesh to break off its attack.”
And who leaked that? Hawthorne wondered. Oh, of course, the Air Marshal.
“Yes, Director. It’s time to cut and run.”
In his communications studio in New Baghdad, the big Venusian hunched forward, his brawler’s fists clenched, showing off the heavy brass rings. “Now look here, General, that’s just the sort of talk I’m sick of hearing.”
“Of a successful hit and run?”
“You know that isn’t what I mean. This entire… I’m going to use a word I hope you don’t find offensive, Generaclass="underline" Cowardice.”
“Why would I find a charge of cowardice offensive?”
“I’m not calling you that, of course.”
“Ah, splendid.”
“But what else can one say to this suggestion of running away when we’re finally hurting these bastards?”
“I see. Then maybe you should consider this, Director. Three irreplaceable spacecraft didn’t cut and run in the Venus System. They stuck around to trade fire with the enemy. Those three missile ships were destroyed.”
“Of course they were!” said Gannel. “These piecemeal attacks of yours, General, are suicide.”
“A strategy dictates the tactics, Director. Our present strategy is the death of a thousand cuts, to bleed the enemy to death one Highborn at a time. There are only two million of them. Thus, one hits hard and runs, to fight another day. What one doesn’t do is trade blows with the Highborn or get greedy and go for more than is reasonable. Because their one great advantage is the ability to win any sustained engagement, usually with spectacular style.”
“Don’t lecture me. I know all about strategy and tactics. How do you think I achieved my rank?”
“We’re dealing with Highborn. Not Venusian rabble.”
The cold calculating stare of Director Gannel seemed to measure Hawthorne. “I’m going to be frank, General. We don’t like this splitting of the Fleet, this nipping at our enemy’s heels. Our battleships should be together and used to strike at one precise point, to break the grip of the Highborn one at a time at each of the four planets.”
“After we’ve sufficiently hemorrhaged them, yes, I quite agree.”
“We don’t have that kind of time, General. We must strike now! We must crush this rebellion before the Highborn gain allies from the Outer Planets.”
“It is we who should be seeking allies,” said Hawthorne.
“No!”
“Director—”
“You’d better listen to me, General. The Directorate is weary of your defeatist talk. Boldness! We want boldness in our planning.”