Extremis (24 page)

But he didn’t have time to voice the question: they went through the doors into the conference room and discovered a very different scene than the one they had anticipated.

They had expected to be met, and briefed, by ex-Major Tibor Peters, who, despite being reduced to a first lieutenant in accord with the late Van Felsen’s rank reshufflings, was still addressed (as he had been for almost twenty years) as “Cap”—and was still called the Old Man when he was out of earshot.

Cap was indeed there in the room waiting for them—but not at the center of the table, as they’d expected. Second Lieutenant William Chong, who still had a cast on his right leg, and his right arm in a sling, was also there, but also not at the center of the table. He was active Navy and the only one of the planet-based fighter jocks who had lived to tell the tale of fighting the Baldies. Instead, these two well-respected and competent warriors were seated in flanking positions to either side of—

Julian Heide, as thin and reedlike as ever, cleared his throat. “Sergeant McGee, Corporal Wismer, you will please take the seats that have been provided for you.” Two straight-back metal-frame chairs—as hard on the eyes as they were on the posterior—were set in the center of the room.

McGee looked at Cap Peters, who—for the first time in all the years that Sandro had known him, trained with him, and drunk with him—looked away. “What is this, Cap? A trial?”

Heide cleared his throat again. “No, Sergeant. This is an inquest. That means it’s an exploratory hearing in which—”

“I know what an inquest is—sir.” McGee’s lagging addition of the honorific made it painfully clear to all in the room that he had little enough respect for the man he had addressed. “Cap, what the hell is going on he—?”

“Sergeant,” Heide interrupted, “I am in charge of this inquest. You will take your seat at once or I will have disciplinary demerits added to your record.”

McGee turned back to diminutive Heide, fists balling up—but Wismer tugged him gently toward the chairs. Sitting off to one side, Ensign (formerly Lieutenant) Marina Cheung nodded sad encouragement to follow Jonathan’s lead. And McGee conceded that she probably knew best: she was obviously here in her role as the Resistance’s only Special Warrant Officer for Legal Affairs—a thoroughly nonstandard position that had been made necessary by the equally nonstandard situation on Bellerophon. McGee felt like spitting as he conceded inwardly,
Oh, Great God on a pogo stick, must I endure this charade—after everything else?
And although he did not want to, McGee dropped down into his chair with a crash, his slouched posture speaking all the contempt he was not allowed to voice.

At a nod from Heide, Marina stood. “Sergeant Alessandro McGee, Corporal Jonathan Wismer, this inquest is now officially convened. You are advised that your subsequent statements will become part of the official record of these proceedings, and that you are presumed bound by your oath of service to answer fully and accurately all questions put to you, to the best of your ability and understanding. Is that clear?” Cheung, who had become the assistant DA of her small township out in the northern wilds of Sparta, looked and sounded as if she were trying to apologize for every word she was uttering.

McGee sighed.
Well, I know what this is about, so I might as well get it over with.
“Lieutenant Heide, there’s no reason for all the courtroom drama. I’ll admit it. I was the ‘Melantho Bomber,’ and I was operating alone and without orders. In all honesty, I didn’t mean to conceal the truth. I figured HQ had just decided to look the other way. At least that was the impression I got from Force Commander Van Felsen.”

“Perhaps, but I have no documentation, nor reliable attestations, that the lieutenant colonel intended to let the matter go unaddressed.”

“Of course you don’t. Her staff was killed in Melantho just two weeks ago—except Montaño. And you.”

“Quite true, Sergeant. And since this matter was not handled or addressed before her death, it falls upon me, as the acting military justice, to resolve it. However, some new information has come to light which compels us to take a more detailed look at your actions.”

“Oh? And what information is that?”

“Two days ago, it was confirmed, by multiple report, that both Jennifer Peitchkov and her infant son are alive.”

McGee gaped, then grinned and was on his feet to shake Heide’s hand. Hell, he’d even consider hugging the little weasel.…

But Heide’s expression was unsoftened by any fellow feeling or gladness at delivering such news. If anything, his brow was set in an even sterner line. “For the record, it is important to note that the sources of this report were first-hand witnesses. Evidently, a week ago, Ms. Peitchkov’s infant developed a cough that, ultimately, turned out to be a routine and easily cured respiratory infection—nothing serious at all. However, the aliens did not know this, and evidently Ms. Peitchkov asked them to provide her with a pediatrician. The aliens complied, abducting the physician in their typical, brusque fashion, and then released him as soon as he had provided treatment and medications for the infant. That same day, he contacted and reported the incident to our new Resistance cell in Melantho, and was also able to prevail upon the two midwives who delivered the infant to corroborate that Ms. Peitchkov and her infant were alive, well, and in alien custody.”

“That’s great.” McGee tried smiling again, but Heide either did not notice it or did not choose to react. Nor did the others in the room, which was even more puzzling.
What the hell is with all the long faces? This is
happy
news.
But after a moment’s further reflection, McGee realized that something else had to be going on here: they didn’t need all the top surviving Resistance brass just to issue a reprimand, or even convene a routine inquest.

Heide had not stopped talking. “As welcome as the news is that Ms. Peitchkov and her child are still alive, this news has raised an uncomfortable tactical, and even strategic, concern that cannot be ignored.”

A strategic and tactical problem stemming from Jennifer’s survival? McGee looked to his CO—the man whose job it was to sweat those issues—Captain Peters. “I don’t get it, Cap. What’s the military wrinkle?”

Heide raised his voice. “Lieutenant Peters is not senior here.”

“Just this minute, I’m asking the CO about military matters, Lieutenant. I’m not talking about your inquest.”

“Nor am I, Sergeant. The tactical and strategic concerns are now mine as well, since I am, effective today, your new CO.”

McGee was not even aware he had leaped to his feet. “You are
what
?”

Heide did not blink. “I am the new commanding officer of the Resistance.”

McGee’s response was honest, if impolitic: “That’s bullshit.” He turned to Tibor Peters, who met his eyes this time—sadly. “Cap—Tibe—what the hell is going on here? What is this—?”

Heide rapped his gavel on the desk. “You will resume your seat and address the senior officer when making inquiries as to command structures, Sergeant.”

McGee stared at Heide a full second before replying. “I
am
making my inquiry of the senior officer, Lieutenant.” He turned back to Peters as Heide scribbled some notes and then started to reach for the paging button—probably to bring in some guards.

Peters spoke quietly. “Lieutenant Heide—sir.”

Heide’s hand hovered over the button. “Yes, Lieutenant Peters?” He had put a slight emphasis on the word “Lieutenant.”

“Sir, this man—Sandro—has been under my command since he joined the Reserves. I think it might be easier—and faster—if I explain the situation.”

Heide left his palm suspended over the button for a moment, then removed it with a deferential wave. “As you wish, Lieutenant. He’s your man.”

Damn right I’m Cap’s man, you rat-shit,
thought McGee, but instead of saying anything, he bent forward, eyes and ears intent on Cap.

Who looked like he’d fallen into himself and aged ten years since chow last night. “Sandro,” he explained, “you know that when Lieutenant Colonel Van Felsen departed for Melantho, she left two of her Intelligence/Communication team behind. Here.”

McGee nodded. “Yeah, sure. Ensign Montaño”
—a good kid with lots of promise, but still pretty green—
“and Lieutenant Heide.”
Who the Baldies might otherwise have conveniently scragged.
“What of it?”

“Well, Tank, the fact of the matter was that Force Commander Van Felsen used her Intel team as her de facto command staff as well. Hell, we have lots of trained grunts in the Reserves, but not a lot of officers, and there’s a particular shortage of folks with staff-officer experience.”

“Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why Heide’s in charge now.”

Peters shrugged. “Because he’s senior, son.”

McGee gaped. “He’s—senior? What are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about a simple, documented fact, Sergeant.” Heide’s interruption was cool, level, not quite contemptuous. “When Lieutenant Peters mustered out of active service twenty-one years ago, he had only been a first lieutenant for thirteen months. I have been a first lieutenant longer than that, and therefore—”

“How much longer?”

Heide stared at McGee. “Sergeant, when you address me, you will use the proper—”

“
Sir
, the sergeant wishes to ask a question,
sir
. How long have you been a first lieutenant—
sir
?”

Heide’s mouth seemed afflicted by a momentary tic. “Fourteen months. And two days.”

McGee looked at Peters. “Cap, tell me this is some huge joke. At least tell me you’ve logged a protest.”

Peters suddenly looked very old and drawn. “Son, there’s no basis for a protest. Lieutenant Heide is, by strict interpretation of regulations, completely within his rights. I was an acting first lieutenant for three years, actually—a brevet rank. But the official promotion to the rank took place exactly when Heide says it did. And besides, he’s also been active duty now for four years longer than I was.”

McGee gaped, worried he’d babble in his growing desperation. “But Cap—all the active service Marines at Acrocotinth, and at Camp Gehenna—there were plenty of captains and majors who—”

But Cap Peters was shaking his head. “All gone, son. All withdrawn—or killed. And we didn’t advertise that fact when the Baldies got here. Van Felsen thought it would be bad for morale.”

“What do you mean, the other officers were all lost or killed?”

“The training staff and cadres at Camp Gehenna were all pulled back to Astria when it was learned the aliens were going to arrive in the Bellerophon system. And given the furor over their arrival, and the isolated location of Gehenna, it was easy enough to make that withdrawal look like part of the massive redeployments under way at that time. HQ deemed it prudent to remove the Rim’s biggest concentration of experienced Marine training staff and cadre. Judging from what happened here, I can’t say they made the wrong decision.

“The actual casualties? Well, all our active-duty units were out at the forts guarding the warp points and orbital facilities. We lost ninety-five percent of the formations that had originally been stationed at Acrocotinth out there, along with most of the other active-duty units.”

“Good God, Cap, why did they load so many Marines on the forts and orbital stations?”

“SOP when you’re dealing with nonhumans, son—but you probably wouldn’t have been taught that. It’s ancient history now, purged from the training manuals. See, after the Bug War and the earlier dust-up with the Thebans, we had learned that, when your enemy isn’t human, you can’t assume that they are as sour on deep-space boarding actions as we are. And if you are being boarded, then it’s just common sense that if you
don’t
have Marines, your ship will be lost—as will all the crew—during the one-sided carnage. So with aliens we’d never encountered on the way, and millions of tonnes of fortresses to defend, General Trinh embarked all the Acrocotinth battalions on our spaceside hardpoints. And he—and almost all our officers—went with them.

“Of course, HQ never envisioned a complete loss of the system, at least not so fast. And although the Intel folks back in Astria made the right call with the withdrawal of Camp Gehenna’s staff, they royally screwed the pooch when they presumed the arriving aliens wouldn’t have reactionless drives. It’s an understandable extrapolation, of course. Since our visitors were arriving by slow sublight speed, it seemed they neither had knowledge of warp points—which was correct—nor an understanding of reactionless drive technology, which was tragically
in
correct. So, by that erroneous logic, it was thought that the naval fight for the system would proceed more slowly, with more time for redeployments, shifting of forces and matériel.

“No one envisioned a two-day collapse, with all space stations lost. Poor Van Felsen was way down on the seniority list before the redeployments to the fortresses. Hell, as a light bird colonel, she just barely had enough rank to be made a Marine force commander. And so, son, what you see in this room is all we’ve got left, all we’ve got in the way of a command staff. And in the mix we have left, Lieutenant Heide has seniority.”

McGee leaned back in his seat. Jennifer and the baby were alive: the best possible news. Heide was in charge of the Resistance: arguably, the worst possible news. What a day. “Let me guess—that announcement was made earlier today?” Which would explain all the gray faces and dark looks in the corridors of HQ.

Heide cleared his throat. “The officers were informed at 0800. I suspect there has been some inappropriate relay of that information to the enlisted ranks—nonregulation, but predictable.”

McGee had to lock his teeth together against the new CO’s prim officiousness.
Heide, you need to get that imaginary swagger stick out of your ass, and the starch out of your jockstrap
. “And so I’m to tell the NCOs of the—change—in command structure?”

“Yes, as master gunnery sergeant, you would normally be responsible for relaying this information to all HQ and special action team NCOs.”

“I would
normally
be responsible?”