He switched the communi-unit off and turned to Schott.
“What do you think, Sgt. Schott? Will they give in… or will we have to crush them beneath our bootheels?”
“Sir, I think—” He looked over Arnold’s shoulder. “I think you have a message,” he said. He looked thankful for the interruption.
“Incoming” flashed across the screen of Arnold’s communi-unit. “This is Rook,” Arnold said.
A dark-skinned woman appeared on the screen. “I am Helen Bozyk, president of New Venture. There’s no need for violence. We surrender.”
Arnold let a prim smile crease his lips. “Good. You have chosen wisely. But as of this moment, you are no longer president of anything. I am now the military governor of New Venture. I will come to Venture City immediately to begin organizing the next shipment to Omnicorp. See that there is no resistance. If a single shot is fired against us, the full nuclear capabilities of this vessel will be unleashed on your population. Is that clear?”
Bozyk nodded. “Yes. I understand.”
Arnold turned the communi-unit off again.
“That was quick,” Schott said.
“They’re not fools, Sergeant. They could see I’m not to be trifled with.”
Schott considered his reply for a moment. “Should we prepare the shuttle? With an escort?”
“Of course, Sgt. Schott. I’d like to inspect my new capital as soon as possible.”
Arnold dismissed the soldiers and slid open his closet. He’d had a duraleather field uniform custom-made back on Earth. It had cost him a fortune, but what difference did it make how much money was left in a bank account eighteen light-years away? The people of New Venture were about to meet their new ruler. They deserved a spectacle.
Arnold was sweating under the hot light of Sigma Draconis. His field uniform looked impressive—he’d spent a full hour strapping on his gun belt, adjusting his epaulets, puffing out his breeches, pinning on his medals, tilting his busby just so. But the fabric didn’t breathe. It was stifling. He was almost afraid he would faint.
He struggled to conceal his discomfort. There were the throngs to think about. The cheering throngs.
Thousands of Venturians lined the streets, greeting Arnold and his motorcade with hurrahs and confetti. Some of them even waved little flags, though Arnold couldn’t see from his touring car what kind of flags they were. Occasionally, a girl would dart into the street to kiss one of Arnold’s Marines. An old woman tossed him a bouquet of flowers.
They weren’t just conquerors. They were liberators! Although liberators from what, Arnold wasn’t sure. Most likely Bozyk was a tyrant, her cronies radical anti-corporationists. The people were thrilled to be returning to the womb of civilized mercantilism.
Arnold waved to the multitudes—a reserved wave, the bent-elbow hand-flutter of pontiffs and royalty.
“Shouldn’t you sit down, sir?” Schott growled. The grizzled old vet’s eyes scanned the crowd anxiously. “You make a good target standing up like that.”
Arnold kept his eyes on the crowd, too. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” he said, waving. “Look at those faces! We’re heroes, Sgt. Schott. No one will try to harm us.” He gave a lump in his tunic a quick pat. “But even if they are foolish enough to oppose us, we’ve got the Pocket Nukes to back us up. One push of a button, and the Rectifier will unleash fiery death from above.”
Schott simply grunted in reply. Arnold let the lapse in protocol slip by.
A few minutes later the motorcade reached the capitol building. A somber delegation of Venturians was waiting on the steps in front. Bozyk was among them. She stepped forward and bowed solemnly.
“Commander Rook, welcome to Venture City.”
Arnold’s driver hopped out and opened the back door of the touring car. Arnold stepped down from the vehicle with regal confidence.
“Thank you, Citizen Bozyk. Your cooperation so far has stayed your execution. Continue to cooperate, and it may be delayed indefinitely.”
Bozyk lifted her head. Her eyes were calm. “I understand, Commander.”
“Good. Now please show me to your office—or I should say my office. I have much to do and I wish to get started immediately.”
Bozyk bowed again quickly. “Certainly, Commander. This way.”
Arnold marched crisply up the steps after Bozyk. Schott came, too, waving a handful of Marines to follow. More Venturians were waiting in the lobby as Arnold and his party entered. They all bowed silently.
Bozyk led them to an ornately decorated elevator bank. “This leads directly to your office, Commander Rook,” she said.
Emblazoned on the elevator doors was a huge “R” in a golden crest. It looked remarkably like the insignia on his own uniform.
Arnold chuckled dryly. “Ironic. What did the ‘R’ on these doors originally stand for?”
“The ‘R’ is for Rook,’ Commander,” Bozyk replied.
Arnold raised an eyebrow at Schott. The sergeant didn’t seem amused. “Your people do quick work, Citizen Bozyk.”
Bozyk smiled. “Thank you, Commander.”
The doors opened, and Bozyk motioned for Arnold to enter.
“After you, Citizen.”
Bozyk stepped into the elevator. Arnold waited a few seconds. Seeing that no laser beams or bullets or metal rods had torn Bozyk to pieces, he followed. Schott stepped in after posting more guards in the lobby. The doors closed and the elevator began to hum.
“I think you’ll like your office, Commander,” Bozyk said. “We did our best to please you.”
The doors slid apart, revealing a room straight out of Arnold’s dreams. The desk was vast, easily the length of a luxury groundcar. The gold-crested “R” shone from its black durawood. On each side of the desk was a globe—one of Earth, one of New Venture. Behind it was a long picture window looking out over the city. On the opposite wall was a larger-than-life portrait of Arnold himself. He stood on a rocky precipice, hands on his hips, his face bathed in the glow of Sigma Draconis.
Bozyk stepped up to the picture. “We can redo the painting if you wish. We weren’t sure which of your uniforms you would prefer.”
The portrait showed Arnold in his field uniform—which he’d put on for the first time just hours before.
Arnold walked over to the massive desk and leaned against its smooth, cold surface. Once again, he was afraid he might faint.
“No, it’s fine,” he said, his voice a whisper. “How did you finish all this so quickly?”
“We didn’t, Mr. Amlingmeyer. We’ve been preparing for you for years.”
Arnold straightened up and turned to face Bozyk. “I am Ulysses S. Rook, commander of the starship Rectifier!”
Bozyk nodded. “Yes, you are now. But back on Earth you were Arnold Amlingmeyer, certified public accountant of Queens, New York.”
A harsh laugh boomed out, bouncing off the walls of the cavernous office. It was Schott. “I knew it!” he said. “I knew it!”
“That will be all, Sergeant!” Arnold snapped.
Schott stopped laughing, but the look of bemused contempt didn’t leave his face.