CHAPTER


THIRTY-SIX

Headquarters, Coalition Army, Ravenette

The ragged little man stood quietly just inside the entrance to General Lyons’s command post. He had talked his way past the sentries by telling them he had an important piece of intelligence for the general. But once inside the bustling nerve center of the Coalition’s army, he seemed to lose the power of speech. At first no one noticed him there. Several times he made as if to speak to a passing officer or noncom, but each time he lapsed back into embarrassed silence.

The CP was in turmoil, which was one reason nobody noticed the visitor at first. Organized confusion is the normal state of affairs in a CP during a battle, but that day the frenzy was at its highest level because General Lyons was marshaling his troops for an all-out assault on the Confederation’s besieged garrison at Fort Seymour. So when the civilian intruder was finally noticed, eyebrows were raised.

At last a burly sergeant carrying a toolbox on his way to fix a malfunction in someone’s communications console stopped and asked the man, clearly a civilian who did not belong in the command post, “Who in the hell are you?”

“Tatnall Toombs,” the little man answered, his voice cracking on the last syllable, “and I have information of importance to General Lyons.” He cleared his throat nervously.

“Yeah? Why ain’t you bein’ escorted, Mr. Tumbs?” The sergeant, like all sergeants throughout time, sensed a breach of discipline. He was, of course, outraged.

Toombs, sir,” the little man corrected timidly, “and I have a message for the general.” The sergeant regarded the little man carefully. He was dressed in rags; his hair was stringy, unkempt, and offensively unwashed; he had not shaved in days; and his fingernails were filthy. The sergeant’s first thought was, What could this bum possibly have to tell General Lyons? But then he noticed Tatnall Toombs’s eyes: they were the brightest blue and clear and they did not waver. The sergeant had seen such men before, recruits who outwardly feared military discipline but who refused to be broken by it. Often such men turned into excellent soldiers. This ragman seemed to have that quality—he was here, wasn’t he, where clearly he did not belong and did not want to be, but here he was nevertheless. Certainly he had something going for him to get inside the well-guarded CP without a military police escort.

“Major?” the sergeant hailed a passing staff officer. The major took Mr. Toombs to his lieutenant colonel, who in turn took him to a full colonel, who took him to a brigadier general and thence to a major general. The latter officer, a man who hated red tape, after listening to what Mr. Toombs had to say, jumped channels immediately and took him to see General Davis Lyons.

Office of General Lyons, Coalition Army Headquarters

When the order had come to evacuate Ashburtonville in advance of its becoming a battleground, some residents refused to leave, stubborn people, attached to their homes, who simply refused to desert them, homes they owned, homes where generations of their families had lived and died, homes that defined what kind of people they were.

Such a man was Tatnall “Tat” Toombs. He’d sent his family away but he refused to evacuate. His house was a sturdy affair in an affluent suburb some distance from Pohick Bay and Fort Seymour, sufficiently removed from the scene of action that it had only been partially destroyed during bombardments by the Confederation ships in orbit around the planet.

The modern structure, in the cantilevered Archadian style, actually rested on two homes that had previously occupied the site. They had been built by ancestors of the Toombs family. The first, built during the planet’s early settlement, had burned; the second had been built over the ruins of the original building; and the home Toombs lived in had been extensively renovated by succeeding members of his family. The advantage it had over the other properties in the neighborhood was a deep double basement. In this basement, Tat Toombs took up housekeeping after he’d seen his family safely off to a more remote region of Ravenette, where they’d be safe from the fighting.

The lower basement was dry and snug because the neighborhood was high enough above the water table and Pohick Bay that it was not subject to seepage. Its drainage was so good it did not flood even during the rainy season. During the first Confederation bombardment the roof had been blown off the house, leaving the rest of it open to the weather, but that did not affect Tat Toombs, safe in the basement surrounded by his family heirlooms and a stockpile of food and drink hastily collected when the first evacuation order had been issued. He could always rebuild the upper story.

But life in Ashburtonville was far from pleasant for those who remained behind. At first the army had orders to forcibly evacuate all civilians from the city, but as the tempo of the fighting increased, the military’s attention turned elsewhere. And those few civilians remaining in the city soon learned to move with caution when they left the safety of their hiding places.

Day and night the furtive residents hunkered down in the ruins, buffeted by the constant ripping and roaring of heavy weapons, the thump-thump-thump of projectile guns firing massive barrages followed by earthshaking detonations, the dreadful riiiiiiip-CRASH of high-energy weapons, the screeching of low-flying aircraft that forced men in their burrows to cover their ears, and the intermittent crescendo of thousands of small arms firing during the infantry assaults that seethed back and forth over the no-man’s-land between Fort Seymour and the redoubts on Bataan.

The ruined city was blanketed under a choking and continual pall from the smoke of the fires that never went out mingled with the dust kicked up by the constant bombardments; blackbirds and slimies swarmed everywhere, the constant companions of the miserable humans crouching terrified beneath the debris. While the human sense of smell can be dulled rather quickly, no one who stayed behind in the city—and that included the tens of thousands of soldiers—ever got the stench of death and decay out of his nostrils. It pervaded everything, clothes, food, equipment. When it rained, the dreadful miasma sank deep into the ground assuring that it would endure long after the fighting was over.

Whole streets had been reduced to rubble and were impassable; others were lined with the façades of ruined buildings, some with roofs gone, walls collapsed revealing the rooms inside, all unsafe for habitation. Occasionally a partially destroyed building would finally collapse with a roar in a vast cloud of dust. Still, desperate scavengers ventured into the upper floors of buildings in their never-ending search for food, supplies, and valuables. No one would ever know how many were trapped in the collapsing ruins.

Finding food was the first and constant priority for every living creature left in Ashburtonville. Scavenging soon became a full-time occupation for them. Men learned to move under the cover of darkness or right after an orbital bombardment, when increased volumes of fire and smoke obscured them from the troops hunkered by the thousands in defensive positions. Occasionally the troops would share their rations with the locals, although that was strictly against orders. When small groups of scavengers searching for food would meet by chance in a deserted store, violent confrontations broke out as they struggled for possession of whatever scraps had been overlooked by the slimies. Tat Toombs avoided that by scavenging alone.

In peacetime Tat Toombs had been a district supervisor for the City of Ashburtonville. He’d also been a prominent member of the Ravenette Liberation Party (RLP), the most vocal and influential of several secessionist political parties on Ravenette. The RLP had been foremost in opposition to continued membership in the Confederation of Human Worlds and agitated for secession even before the disaster at Fort Seymour that had resulted in the deaths of so many Ravenites. Tat Toombs knew something about that incident since he had participated in the planning for the demonstration that had ended so violently.

So Tat Toombs took his life in his hands and went out into the ruined city one day, not to scavenge, but to redeem his honor.

  

“Mr. Toombs, is it?” General Lyons asked as the little man was ushered into his presence. He gestured toward a camp chair. Almost reluctantly, Toombs took it. “My ADC informs me you have information of importance, sir. Will it help in the coming battle?”

“Uh, no, sir. But it is information you need to know.”

“Mr. Toombs, I’m very busy. But you have five minutes. Incidentally, how did you get in here to see me like this?”

Toombs shrugged. “I jist asked.”

Lyons nodded. “I’ll just see about that,” he said darkly. “Well, Mr. Toombs, what is it you have for me? Ah, one thing before you begin.” He held up a forefinger. “I’m afraid I cannot let you out of here for a while.” Lyons smiled apologetically. “You see, we’re about ready for the big push, and with enemy patrols swarming all over the rear, I can’t take a chance one of them might nab you, get you to tell them about what you may have seen or heard while you were here. So until the assault is well under way, I’ll have to keep you here under”—he shrugged—“‘house arrest,’ let’s say. You do understand, don’t you?” Lyons regarded the disheveled little man carefully. He looked as if he could use a rest, even an army meal, such as they were.

“Yes, sir.” Toombs nodded. “That’s all right, General. That’s perfectly all right.”

“Proceed, then.”

“Well, sir”—Toombs shifted in his chair—“you see, I was a district supervisor for the city and also I was an officer in the RLP. You know who they were?”

“Yes, I do. Mr. Toombs—”

“Call me Tat, sir.”

“Tat, then. I’m really not interested in your political affiliation.” Lyons smiled, but from the way he said this, Toombs sensed General Lyons did not think much of the RLP.

“Well,” Tat sighed, and took a breath, “that demonstration at Fort Seymour, where all those people got killed? It was a setup. The RLP set it up, sent those folks in against the Confederation’s soldiers. Provocateurs were secretly infiltrated into the crowd. It was they who fired the first shot, got them soldiers to shoot back. We wanted something to hold against the Confederation, something so nasty everyone out here’d want to secede, we needed a ‘cause,’ we needed a massacre, an’ by God, I guess that’s just what we got.”

Lyons was silent for a moment. “There were rumors—Mr. Toombs, Tat, how do you know this?”

“Because I was in on it.”

“You—?”

Toombs nodded and hung his head. “I was in on it. Oh, at the time I thought, what the heck, a few busted eggs, a few folks hurt, but if that’s the price we gotta pay for an independence omelet, that’s the price. I never thought”—he waved a hand vaguely—“I never thought it’d lead to this.” He nodded his head to take in the command post, the armies, the vast war now engulfing his world. “I never thought…,” he whispered, then was silent for a long moment. Then he looked up at General Lyons, his bright blue eyes flashing. “I know who set it up, I know their names. Some of ’em is high up in the Coalition government. I’ll give you the names, and when the time comes, I’ll stand up and swear what I know is the truth.” He paused, catching his breath. “I jist thought you needed to know that, sir. Me, I’m sick to death of what’s happened and I jist can’t live with it anymore without tellin’ somebody. I figured you was the one to tell.”

“Well,” Lyons said, “well, well, well. Hmmmm. This sure changes things.” He was silent for a moment, taking in what Toombs had just confessed. Then he came around his desk, got down on one knee, and laid a hand on Toombs’s knee. “Who were they?”

Without hesitating Toombs handed over a crystal. “I recorded the meetings, General. It’s all on there. You’ll recognize some of those folks, they came in from off-world for the meetin’s. That’s how far-reachin’ the plot was.” Lyons returned to his desk and viewed the crystal in silence for a few minutes. “Was Preston Summers in on this?”

“No, sir. The plan was to keep certain politicians in the dark, so they’d support the secessionist movement. Summers’d never have gone along with it.”

“The Virgin’s bloody hangnails,” Lyons sighed at last. “Are you willing to add your testimony to what’s on this crystal, Mr. Toombs?”

“I’ll swear to it, General.”

General Lyons arose and strode to the heavy curtain that served as a door to his office, leaned outside, and yelled, “Colonel Raggel, front and center!”

“Yessir.”

“Rene, this is Tat Toombs, my very important guest. Will you put him up down here for a while? Make him comfortable. See that nothing happens to him? When you have him situated, get the judge advocate to take a statement from Mr. Toombs, will you? He has something very important to tell him. Tell the provost marshal to see me in here when that’s done, would you?” Lyons put a hand gently on Toombs’s shoulder. “Tat, you did the right thing by coming in here with your story. I promise I’ll do something about it.” He grinned broadly. Only that morning he’d promised the chairman of the Committee on the Conduct of the War he’d be arrested if he tried to oppose him any further. “Well, you bastard,” he muttered, “your time has come.” He turned to Colonel Raggel. “Rene, after you get Tat here squared away, set up a secure line to the commanding officer of the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion. I have a mission for him.”

The Taproom Headquarters of the Committee on the Conduct of the War, Gilbert’s Corners

The members of the Committee on the Conduct of the War had been badly shaken by the previous night’s attack, so badly none had as yet remembered to complain about General Lyons’s threats. They had remained in the old taproom throughout the day and were still there in the early evening, deep into their cups and feeling no more pain.

The door opened suddenly and an officer stepped in. “Which one of you is Heb Cawman?” he asked.

“He ain’t here,” said one. “Ain’t seen him since last night.”

“Then who’s in charge?”

The committee members looked at each other uncertainly for a moment, then one volunteered, “Guess I am.”

“And you are?” the officer asked.

“Duey Culvert.” Noticing the officer’s red face, he said, “Come on, Colonel, siddown ’n’ have a drink with us!” The other members of the committee, equally soused, laughed and banged their cups on the table.

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Delbert Cogswell, commander of the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion,” the officer said, “and I am here to arrest you, sir.”

Culvert laughed and the delegate from Lannoy staggered to his feet and shouted, “I know you, Delbert, you old bastard! Stop kiddin’ around an’ siddown.” He slumped back into his chair.

“I am not kidding. Are any of you here the following?” He read off several names. Two members acknowledged that they were present. “That’s all right, I’ll just arrest you all and we can sort out the innocent and the guilty later.”

“Thass how they do it in the Seventh MPs!” the delegate from Lannoy giggled.

“On whose authority, Colonel?” Culvert blustered. He was beginning to realize the MP was serious.

“On General Davis Lyons’s authority, sir.”

“Hell, he ain’t got no authority over us,” Culvert blustered.

“He does over me, sir, and my orders are to arrest you.”

“On what fucking charges?” Culvert shouted.

“Treason, murder, starting a war,” Cogswell said. He signaled with one arm. A squad of MPs filed into the room. “These men will secure you as my prisoners and transport you to the POW compound at Cogglesville, where you will be held until formal charges can be drawn up and your trials convened.”

“Like hell I will!” Culvert screamed.

Cogswell stepped to the table and slammed his billy club down with a bang, making the glasses and bottles rattle. “Listen, you slimy bastard, you get yer ass over there or I’m rammin’ this club so far up your behind your tonsils’ll get bruised.”