Sink supervised the unloading of the wounded before he and Gretta stepped out into the bright Kaspan sunlight. The LC had set them down in front of the same hospital Sinklar had stepped out of, how long ago? Could it truly have been only a matter of weeks?
Gretta came to stand beside him, and only then did he realize she was weaving on her feet. Her brown hair looked ratty and disheveled. Her armor had been smudged and scorched. In places the ablative material flaked off like scale. When she looked at him, her features were haggard, those marvelous blue eyes eclipsed with red.
Two corporals approached at a trot. "Sergeant Fist?" one chirped, snapping a salute. "Would you accompany us, sir?"
"Can I clean up?" he asked, looking down at his charcoal-and-blood streaked armor. The stuff had stiffened into an unforgiving hull from relentless impacts. His stink of sweat, gore, and fire stung even his own inured nose.
"I'm sorry, sir. First Mykroffs orders, sir," the corporal added stiffly.
"Mykroft? What's he got to do with this? Atkin's my—"
"Division First Atkin is dead, sir. Has been for over a week." The corporal's black eyes narrowed skeptically.
"Why didn't anyone tell us?" Sinklar wondered. No wonder we couldn't get supplies, couldn't get our wounded evacuated. Somebody's gonna pay for that.
"All right, let's go," Sinklar grunted, keeping his fuming anger banked. Atkin dead a week? With no replacement? What sort of political tail-chasing was going on anyway?
"I'll find a place for us," Gretta promised as they said good-bye.
Sinklar followed his escort across the compound. When he entered the main building, noncoms stopped and gawked at his battered uniform and hard eyes before whispering behind their hands. News of the fight must have already
rippled through the superstructure. But then, considering their isolation, he might have just fought a minor skirmish compared to what was happening around the rest of the planet.
They stopped outside a plush top-floor office and Sinklar heard his name announced. A Staff Fourth appeared at the door and took his salute with a "This way, Sergeant" and a motion.
He followed the man across thick pile carpet to an inner door and past a corps of secretaries bent over their comm sets. An ornate door opened into the inner sanctum. Sink stepped into a grandly furnished room the likes of which he'd never seen.
Second Targan Assault Division First Mykroft waved off Sink's nervous salute. Mykroft had a dapper build, his frame slight and bony despite the padded uniform. Thinfaced, with pursed lips, he stood stiffly, long nose quivering, eyes hostile. He wore a trimmed mustache and his face— despite medical regeneration treatment — was beginning to show age. That made him old, perhaps two hundred?
"Sergeant Fist," Mykroft greeted, unwilling to shake hands. Battlefields were dirty places at best. And I'd soil the First's manicured hands.
"Yes, sir." Sinklar kept himself at attention, eyes forward. An uneasy fear built to dwarf last night's. Rotted Gods, he was tired. He tried to keep from swaying on his feet.
"Drink?" Mykroft asked.
"No, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm afraid it would put me to sleep on my feet, sir."
The corner of Mykroft's mouth twitched as if he fought a smile. "A cup of stassa then?"
"That would be fine, sir." Sinklar let his eyes wander ever so slightly so he could catalog the room. Very nice! From the pictures on the wall, it had been a mining company headquarters once. Now he knew how a First lived— offices, all plush and gleaming metal, the windows overlooking the mountains to the west. Sinklar noted the column of smoke rising in the peaks to the west. With a shock, he realized it marked his battlefield.
"Yes," Mykroft observed as he handed him the stassa.
"We watched last night. Considering the distance, you made a remarkable display."
"It was impressive up close, too, I assure you," Sinklar said flippantly. Rotted Gods! I am tired. Watch your mouth, Sink. This is a spider's web.
I don't understand Mykroft's kind of politics. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.
First Mykroft laughed and settled himself on the corner of his desk. "At ease, Sergeant. This isn't any sort of a disciplinary meeting or inquest. So speak your mind freely."
Freely? I'm no fool First Mykroft. What's your motive? Why am I here?
Sinklar studied the First, knowing his bloodshot eyes and soot-blackened face must give his features a macabre look.
"With your permission, sir, what happened to First Atkin?"
"He was assassinated Sergeant. It happened in the middle of the night. Both Atkin and Second Nytan were brutally murdered — knifed in their sleep. Nytan's aide slept through the whole thing. It was done silently, effectively. We've only a vague clue as to who the assailants were. A dark-skinned man and a woman with yellow eyes."
Mykroft walked to the window, fingering his chin. "You can understand why we didn't make much of the news. The Targans, of course, attempted to demoralize our troops. And the intelligence information stolen by the assassins led directly to the attacks which decimated Third and fifth Sections — and to the attack which you seem to have repulsed so admirably last night."
He turned, piercing eyes on Sinklar's. "Tell me Sergeant, how did you manage? From the latest figures, you took two hundred and thirty-seven captives, killed another three hundred and sixty Targans. and lost how many men?" He raised an eyebrow.
Taking a deep breath, Sinklar supplied, "We have sixtythree wounded and twenty-one dead, sir." It made him wince, almost half his force.
Mykroft nodded thoughtfully. "Orbital reconnaissance is studying the fleeing groups of Rebels now. They seem completely dispirited. I must say, Sergeant, you have achieved a most amazing victory."
"Thank you, sir." Sinklar sipped the stassa, feeling its
warmth stealing through his body, perking up his nerves. "We used topography to our benefit."
"Your troops did very well, Sergeant. They were green two weeks ago." A pause. "Luck?"
"No, sir. Two weeks of constant combat does have a certain steadying effect, sir. We also ran training seminars during the day whenever we felt we had a modicum of security. It was my. Well, I must admit, sir, we made it up as we went."
Mykroft pursed his lips, trimmed mustache sticking out at an odd angle. "I see. Not exactly in the manual is it?"
"No, sir."
"But results do speak for themselves," Mykroft added, a thin eyebrow arching.
"If you say so, sir."
Mykroft studied him through slitted eyes. "At this juncture, let me tell you we have received most unusual orders, Sergeant Fist. I have been given the discretion — by the Emperor himself — to pick the successor to command the First Targan Assault Division. It is a token of the Imperial Seventh's concern that he is taking extraordinary measures such as these. He wants a man promoted from the ranks. Do you understand the. ramifications of such an appointment?"
Sinklar blinked, breath catching in his throat. "Rotted Gods, sir, half the command structure would feel themselves slighted!"
Mykroft nodded and poured himself a snifter of Myklenian brandy. "You are indeed as perceptive as your personnel file suggests, Sergeant. I can see that a major mistake was made when University declined your admittance and the Minister of Defense opted to simply draft you as a private rather than training you to be an officer. Perhaps we can remedy that situation."
"Sir?" The implications blew coolly through his mind. All my goals, simply dropped into my hand like a gift? Beware, this is more than it seems. Where is the trap? How am I to be sacrificed?
Mykroft settled on the corner of the Vermiion blackwood desk and sipped his brandy. "Sergeant, know that I myself do not approve. I believe in the chain of command rising
within the traditions of the service. Continuity is maintained that way."