drew out a stimstick. He stuck it between his dry lips and inhaled sharply. Stimsticks automatically lit with the first puff. He worked the stimstick to the left side of his mouth and let it dangle.
The bionic bodyguard flanked the right side of the chair. There, he froze into immobility.
“General Hawthorne,” wheezed the director. The old man’s voice was raspy, pained and still filled with deadly menace.
“Sir!” said Hawthorne, snapping to attention.
Red smoke drifted out of the old man’s nostrils. “Shall we spout pleasantries, you and I, or shall we hew to the meat of the matter?”
“I am at the Director’s pleasure, sir.”
“What is the term…? Ah, yes. At ease, General, at ease.”
General Hawthorn’s stance grew minutely wider and he snapped his hands behind his back. His features remained blank.
More red smoke trickled out of the director’s nostrils. “I deplore subterfuge, General.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you may forgo the military routine.”
“Sir?”
“You’re a pacer, I hear. That’s what my profile team told me. When you talk you walk, at least if left to your own devices. So by all means walk.”
“I, ah….”
“Walk,” growled Enkov, indicating the worn carpet.
General Hawthorne did as ordered, although his stride was no longer as sure as before.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hawthorne.
“I deplore lying.”
General Hawthorne’s stride suddenly became surer. He was wondering how best to handle the situation, and when he thought he walked, just as Enkov had said.
Director Enkov’s eyes seemed to glitter and a tiny cruel smile appeared and then disappeared from his dry old lips.
“You asked for the truth, is that not right?” Hawthorne asked.
“Most certainly,” whispered Enkov.
“May I ask then why you are here?”
“Because we’re losing the war,” whispered Enkov.
General Hawthorne nodded, even as he considered Enkov’s presence here. Enkov had come with a single bodyguard into his office for a reason. Maybe it was to try to lull him, to put him at greater ease than otherwise. He would have to monitor his words with care. Yet it would be wise to pretend to be at ease, to let Enkov think his subtlety was working.
“During a war of this magnitude we must expect certain setbacks,” Hawthorne said. “I explained that during my Directorate interrogations.”
“Setbacks, yes,” whispered Enkov. “But we’ve received one defeat after another, and those defeats have come quickly.”
General Hawthorne shrugged as he pivoted and paced back the way he’d come. “New Zealand, Tasmania, Australia, Antarctica, we can well afford such losses.”
“Not in the swift manner we’ve lost them.”
General Hawthorne didn’t respond, even though Director Enkov was right. The Highborn had waged brilliant campaigns. They excelled at space combat. He had hoped land war would have stifled them just a little.
“Volunteers stream into their Free Earth Corps,” whispered Enkov.
“True. But it takes time to train good soldiers.”
“It takes less time to train garrison troops to hold what they’ve conquered. That frees the Highborn for further campaigns.”
Hawthorne nodded. It was the essential problem.
“Did you expect them to win so quickly?” the director whispered.
“No.”
“Then perhaps you’re not a traitor after all, merely incompetent.”
General Hawthorne stopped short.
“Or will you tell me that you miscalculated?”
“Miscalculated is too strong a word,” said Hawthorne. “I misjudged their timing.”
A dry chuckle escaped the old director. It made the smoldering tip of the stimstick bob up and down. “Whatever you call it, you were wrong.”
Cold fear settled in Hawthorne’s chest.
“A general who guesses wrong is useless.”
“But—”
Director Enkov lifted a trembling hand. “Swift, Highborn advances have demolished your estimated timeline. Even your little scheme of blowing Greater Sydney with a deep-core burst came to nothing. Worse, our propagandists have been working overtime to defeat the Highborn accusations that we planned such a thing. In all, General Hawthorne, your prosecution of the war leaves much to be desired.”
Sweat beaded Hawthorne’s upper lip. “I am to be relieved of command?”
“General Hawthorne, I believe you’re something of a historian. At least that’s what my briefing team told me.”
“They are correct, sir.”
“Splendid. Do you recall the history of an ancient city called Carthage?”
“Indeed.”
“I believe Hannibal marched from there.”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“Yes….” Director Enkov shifted to a more comfortable position. “The Carthaginians had an interesting habit concerning generals.” The director’s features took on a more sinister cast, as he smiled cruelly. “If the Carthaginian general came back defeated or lost too many troops, the city fathers debated among themselves. If the judgment went against this general, they took the loser outside the city. There they stripped him of his rank and his clothes. Soldiers scourged him with whips. They nailed spikes through his wrists and his feet, hammering him onto a cross. That cross they propped upright. They
“Yes, sir,” said Hawthorne, uneasily. “The Carthaginian’s invented the custom that the Romans later copied.”
“For the remainder of the war I wish you to consider yourself a Carthaginian general, and all it entails.”
Secret Police General James Hawthorne grew pale and found that he couldn’t speak. There was a hidden gun in the bottom left drawer of his desk. He wondered what his chances were of reaching it and killing these two.
“…Unless,” said Enkov.
“Yes,” croaked Hawthorne. He cleared his throat, hating his display of weakness.
“Surely you have a Plan B,” whispered Enkov.
“B, sir?”
“Something to implement in case your original theories proved false or misleading.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
General Hawthorne thought once more about the hidden gun in his desk. Then he decided that Enkov’s briefing team surely knew about it. The bodyguard would undoubtedly kill him before he could open the drawer.
“Sir, there is a Plan B.”
“Splendid.”
“But it entails great risk.”
“I don’t like the sound of that, General.”
