The general blinks in evident surprise. “Hellbores? I’m not talking about destroying any Hellbores.” He shoots a suspicious glance at Sar Gremian. “Is that what did this?” He waves one hand at the destruction surrounding us. “Hellbores? Where in blazes did common criminals get their hands on something like that? I didn’t know we even had Hellbores!”
I am appalled by the general’s utter lack of information on the battles that have been waged in the past several hours. A general who remains totally ignorant of the basic facts surrounding the heaviest military engagement since the Deng invasion is not worth his weight in mud. Sar Gremian explains the situation to General Meinhard in openly contemptuous terms, an attitude I suspect is well-earned. The other officers smirk and even the civilians appear to be concealing derisive expressions. I begin to think it would have been no great loss if General Meinhard and the officers with him had been quartered on Nineveh Base, rather than living off post in a wealthy civilian section of Madison, which are the official addresses on record for these officers.
When Sar Gremian completes his brief situation report, I seek clarification. “Why are you giving me a medal, if not for the battle at Barran Bluff? The insurrection at Barran is the first combat I have fought since the Deng invasion. I have not been part of any other engagements that would qualify as an assault in defense of anything.”
“But you have,” General Meinhard protests. “You crushed a riot that killed the president!”
I am struck speechless. Jefferson’s government is giving me a medal of valor for crushing civilians in a riot? A riot that would never have ended in Gifre Zeloc’s death if I had not been ordered to crush protestors in the first place? Or if he had used ordinary common sense, rather than jumping into a mob full of enraged Grangers? I sit in stupefied silence as one of the majors crawls up my warhull, medal and welding torch in hand.
“I’ll put it on this side,” the major says, “so it’ll stand out from all the old ones.”
He welds the new “ribbon hanger” — as military slang has dubbed such things through the centuries — onto my turret. After one hundred fifteen years in service, I finally understand why a medal can be referred to in such dismissive terms. I find myself glad that he has not sullied my other badges of honor by adding this gaudy decoration to the cluster of medals that reflect genuine service to humanity. The major succeeds in welding the thing to the right-hand side of my turret, where it blazes in lurid testimony to folly.
Sar Gremian steps forward while the major is still climbing down and peers critically at the damage to my treads. He frowns. “For once,” he mutters, “you weren’t just pissing and moaning. Those tracks have to be fixed. We can’t afford to have some reporter get a photo of you with that kind of damage visible. I suppose we’ll have to find a replacement for that worthless mechanic of yours, as well.”
“That will not be necessary,” I advise him. “Phil Fabrizio was not in his quarters when they were destroyed. He had left the base to visit his sister. I spoke to him before your aircar arrived.”
Sar Gremian frowned. “Where is he? Never mind that, just call him and tell him to shag his ass out here. He’s going to earn that fancy salary we’ve been paying him.”
“Very well. Message sent.”
The president’s advisor says, “Get some work crews out here, Teon. I want a fence around the Bolo, something solid, that curious reporters can’t photograph that machine through, and put an interdiction on fly-overs until we can rig something to park this thing under. Get ’em out here and started within thirty minutes. Phineas,” he addresses a man whose wrist-comm signal identifies as General Orlége, POPPA’s chief propaganda official, “we’re going to need one hell of a damage-control effort on this mess. We can’t hide the loss of Nineveh Base or even Barran Bluff. It’s got to be explained.”
Phineas Orlége says smoothly, “It’s being handled. I’ve already cleared the basic strategy with Vittori and Nassiona. As expensive as this will be to replace,” he waves one hand at the scorched earth of Nineveh Base, including in his gesture my own damage, “this incident will work powerfully in our favor. By my conservative estimate, the events of the past twenty-five hours — and I include Gifre’s death and the arson in downtown Madison — will move our timetable up by several months, at a bare minimum. By this time tomorrow, we may be as much as a year ahead of schedule, which is fine news, indeed. The masses will not tolerate this kind of brutality and their reaction will give us precisely what we need. I refuse to be discouraged by mere price tags, particularly given the size of the stakes in this fascinating little game.”
Sar Gremian favors him with a cool stare. “Then I will give you the pleasure of presenting the bill to Vittori and Nassiona. Your glib assurances may desert you.”
Phineas Orlége smiles. “I shall look forward to seeing which of us is right.”
I am attempting to decide whether this comment was a threat or challenge when Phil pulls his groundcar to a halt six meters from the group beside my ravaged treads. He climbs out, sees the cluster of uniformed officers, and halts. His nano-tatt flares a deep mustard yellow, while the remainder of his face loses color entirely. The resulting combination is not visually appealing.
“Who are you?” General Meinhard demands.
“That,” Sar Gremian says coldly, “is the Bolo’s mechanic. You’d have known that, if you’d bothered to read the security reports I sent when we hired him.”
Meinhard turns purple and sputters. Sar Gremian ignores him and turns his ill temper onto my technician, speaking with a bite like acid. “What kind of excuse do you have for deserting your duty post in the middle of combat?” He gestures to the empty, burnt-out ruin of my maintenance depot. “Do you have the slightest idea what this equipment was worth? Or the spare parts? You didn’t even try to defend it. You just ran like a scared rabbit and let a pack of terrorists blow it up. I should by God take it out of your pathetic little salary. Better still, I should have you court-martialed and shot for treason!”
Phil’s jaw muscles bunch in sudden anger. His nano-tatt pulses crimson. He thins his lips and glares at the president’s senior advisor, but does not speak. This is perhaps the wisest thing I have ever seen him do.
“Did you hear me, you stupid slopebrow?”
Phil’s jaw juts forward, increasing his resemblance to an angry australopithecine. Quite unexpectedly, I sympathize. I have been on the receiving end of Sar Gremian’s temper. Phil goes up in my estimation even further when he says, “How’s about I set somethin’ straight, Mr. High-and-Mighty Advisor? Court-martial is what’cha do to soldiers, only I ain’t a soldier. I’m the Bolo’s technician. You ought t’ be dancin’ for joy, ’cause it’s a damned good thing I got the hell outta here when the shootin’ started. If I hadn’t a got outta here when I did, you’d be lookin’ for a new mechanic, on top of all the other stuff you gotta pay for.
“So how’s about you stop slingin’ the shit my way an’ get me some goddamn tools and crap t’ fix him with? And maybe while you’re at it, you can get me a computer and some new clothes and a toothbrush, ’cause I just lost every goddamn thing I had in the world, on account a somebody screwed around and let a bunch a land hogs steal weapons they got no business to have. How’s about you do alla that before you come around here pissin’ all over me? You still got a place t’sleep, tonight. I don’t and I ain’t in no mood t’listen to some uppity jackass tellin’ me this is my fault, when anybody with half a brain coulda’ seen it comin’ from ten kilometers away.”