Chapter 3: Losing the war
"Do you honestly believe the Kangas would do this?"
"Yes, sir. Both my parents were the only survivors of their families after the attack on Earth. My stepmother still had her family, but she was on Manhattan when the bombs fell and was the only survivor out of a group of over nine hundred people she knew. Four billion deaths, sir. The Kangas don't want to do a precision strike on our military. They want to wipe out our species. You can't reason with that. They'd do it, sir."
"You're taking this pretty calmly."
"I've always been phlegmatic, sir."
"If you don't mind me asking…"
"The legs, sir? Everyone wonders that."
"I'll admit, I was curious."
"During my third year at the Academy - well, you know the 'Feast of the Survivors'?"
"Sure. We did that when I went through on Earth. After third year battle manoeuvres, you have a party to celebrate not washing out."
"Yes, sir. On Midgard it's a bit more informal - my friends and I referred to it as our biannual piss-up. When the officers weren't around, of course."
"Of course." She did have a sense of humour, just a dry one, he decided.
"I volunteered to stay sober, because someone had to get everyone home after we went pub-crawling. We were crossing a side-street when an out-of-control air truck came through. My step-brother, who was in the same year as me, wasn't able to move out of the way fast enough because he'd hurt his leg during the manoeuvres. I threw him out of the way onto the sidewalk, but didn't have time to dodge myself. The truck knocked me down and ran over me full-tilt."
"Did the police catch the driver?"
"Yes. He's still in jail. I was rushed to the hospital, but one of my legs was crushed so badly they had to amputate and my spinal cord was severed too badly to fix or splice. They told me I'd be paralysed from the neck down for life. I got the use of my arms back in spite of that and did the next year and a half of academic studying from the hospital after refusing a medical discharge."
"And you wound up in intelligence?"
"I'm a genius, sir, and a cynic. That's not boasting, sir," she caught his look. "It's fact. I was eighteen when I got into the academy and I had a Masters in spacecraft design then. I now have a Masters in electronics as well and I'm working on another in computers. I know what I'm capable of."
"Are you capable of mistakes?"
"Of course, sir. But I don't think I'm making one right now. This isn't a conclusion I jumped to, General. It's a conclusion I tried desperately to disprove. I don't want it to be true, sir. I may be crippled, but I'm still not ready to die."
"Good. Don't die, Lieutenant, and that's an order. Now get to work and try to prove you made a mistake. And if that Commander Arx of yours comes trying to steal you back, tell him to come see me. I've heard nothing but bad things about him."
"Yes, sir. I'll do that." Again the faintest hint, just the tiniest flicker of humour, then it was gone and her chair whirred out the door.
General Fitzwilliam Dafflemeier stared at the image of dead grasses still showing on the screen, tapping his fingertips on the plastic table. "Did we just lose the war?" He asked of the empty room. "Damn."
"Do you honestly believe the Kangas would do this?"
"Yes, sir. Both my parents were the only survivors of their families after the attack on Earth. My stepmother still had her family, but she was on Manhattan when the bombs fell and was the only survivor out of a group of over nine hundred people she knew. Four billion deaths, sir. The Kangas don't want to do a precision strike on our military. They want to wipe out our species. You can't reason with that. They'd do it, sir."
"You're taking this pretty calmly."
"I've always been phlegmatic, sir."
"If you don't mind me asking…"
"The legs, sir? Everyone wonders that."
"I'll admit, I was curious."
"During my third year at the Academy - well, you know the 'Feast of the Survivors'?"
"Sure. We did that when I went through on Earth. After third year battle manoeuvres, you have a party to celebrate not washing out."
"Yes, sir. On Midgard it's a bit more informal - my friends and I referred to it as our biannual piss-up. When the officers weren't around, of course."
"Of course." She did have a sense of humour, just a dry one, he decided.
"I volunteered to stay sober, because someone had to get everyone home after we went pub-crawling. We were crossing a side-street when an out-of-control air truck came through. My step-brother, who was in the same year as me, wasn't able to move out of the way fast enough because he'd hurt his leg during the manoeuvres. I threw him out of the way onto the sidewalk, but didn't have time to dodge myself. The truck knocked me down and ran over me full-tilt."
"Did the police catch the driver?"
"Yes. He's still in jail. I was rushed to the hospital, but one of my legs was crushed so badly they had to amputate and my spinal cord was severed too badly to fix or splice. They told me I'd be paralysed from the neck down for life. I got the use of my arms back in spite of that and did the next year and a half of academic studying from the hospital after refusing a medical discharge."
"And you wound up in intelligence?"
"I'm a genius, sir, and a cynic. That's not boasting, sir," she caught his look. "It's fact. I was eighteen when I got into the academy and I had a Masters in spacecraft design then. I now have a Masters in electronics as well and I'm working on another in computers. I know what I'm capable of."
"Are you capable of mistakes?"
"Of course, sir. But I don't think I'm making one right now. This isn't a conclusion I jumped to, General. It's a conclusion I tried desperately to disprove. I don't want it to be true, sir. I may be crippled, but I'm still not ready to die."
"Good. Don't die, Lieutenant, and that's an order. Now get to work and try to prove you made a mistake. And if that Commander Arx of yours comes trying to steal you back, tell him to come see me. I've heard nothing but bad things about him."
"Yes, sir. I'll do that." Again the faintest hint, just the tiniest flicker of humour, then it was gone and her chair whirred out the door.
General Fitzwilliam Dafflemeier stared at the image of dead grasses still showing on the screen, tapping his fingertips on the plastic table. "Did we just lose the war?" He asked of the empty room. "Damn."