Capellan
Explorer
Prologue
Jacobsen shivered.
He tried to tell himself it was the cold. This far down in the basement levels, the only heat came from the bare fluorescent lights in the concrete ceiling. The General preferred it like that. But then the old bastard didn't feel it any more, did he?
The General. Like it or not, there was the real reason for the shiver. He was not going to be pleased with the younger man's news.
Jacobsen hurried along the plain, white-washed corridor, the scuff of his patent leather soles sounding loud in the silence of Basement 7.
The huge, stainless steel door at the end of the corridor swung open as he approached it. He swallowed, trying not to let his anxiety show in his face. Straight in with no wait meant the General was impatient.
The room beyond the door was almost as bare as the corridor that preceded it. The only item of furniture was the vast, stainless steel desk, its surface studded with dozens of video screens. Every screen flickered with life, all 37 channels of GPE programming playing simultaneously.
Jacobsen hated that desk. The constant flicker of images drew the eye, distracted the mind. The old man knew it, and used it. Another weapon in his arsenal.
"Jacobsen. What do you have to report?"
As if the old man didn't already know.
"There's a problem with the prize for next month's WCX pay-per-view, GS." He took a little pride that he'd kept the tremor out of his voice.
"Yes, so you told me in your last visit." There was a soft whir of gears as the old man descended from the ceiling. He sat in a cast iron chair - he'd owned it during the war, they said - his gnarled, bone-white hands clutching the arm rests. Jacobsen had never seen the old man lift those hands, but he'd heard the stories. "You said the matter was 'under control'."
He swallowed.
"I thought it was. The team of negotiators has never failed me, before."
"Never send a diplomat to do a soldier's job. That was Eisenhower's problem: he kept trying to be one when he should have been the other."
"Yessir." Despite the cold, Jacobsen could feel himself sweating. "But we've had a good working relationship with this tribe for several years, now. I thought that negotiation -"
"We had a good working relationship with Joe Stalin, too." The old man spat the name, "Didn't change the fact that he was a son-of-a-bitch."
"No sir." The first thing you learned at GPE: never argue about the reds. Not that Jacobsen had any intention of doing so, "He was a commie bastard, sir."
"Don't patronise me, Jacobsen." The voice turned cold, "Not when you've come lookin' for me to pull your stones out of the fire."
"Yessir. You have a suggestion, sir?"
"Seems to me like this tribe of yours needs to be a taught a lesson. The kind of lesson that ass Montgomery learned at Arnhem. Don't get greedy."
"Yessir."
"WCX players have to abide by certain rules. Sometimes, an athlete comes along who has all the skills to go to the top, but who can't stick to those rules."
"Sir?"
"I'm sure you have a few people like that on your books, Jacobsen. People who are a danger to themselves and their fellow athletes. People who are a drain on our profits. People who are expendable."
"Yes, sir. I can think of a few."
"Kit them out, open a gate, and send them through. Tell 'em to teach these little bastards a lesson they'll never forget. And tell them to bring back that - what is it they're supposed to get?"
"A golden apple, sir. It has magical healing qualities."
The old man snorted,
"Stupidest thing I've heard since Market Garden. Tell them to bring back that apple. And Jacobsen -"
"Yessir?"
"Send a camera. We may not be able to broadcast this, but I want to know exactly what happens."
"Yes sir, I will sir."
"You'd better. Because if you don't teach those freaky little bastards that nobody messes with George Patton, then I might have to teach you."
Jacobsen shivered.
He tried to tell himself it was the cold. This far down in the basement levels, the only heat came from the bare fluorescent lights in the concrete ceiling. The General preferred it like that. But then the old bastard didn't feel it any more, did he?
The General. Like it or not, there was the real reason for the shiver. He was not going to be pleased with the younger man's news.
Jacobsen hurried along the plain, white-washed corridor, the scuff of his patent leather soles sounding loud in the silence of Basement 7.
The huge, stainless steel door at the end of the corridor swung open as he approached it. He swallowed, trying not to let his anxiety show in his face. Straight in with no wait meant the General was impatient.
The room beyond the door was almost as bare as the corridor that preceded it. The only item of furniture was the vast, stainless steel desk, its surface studded with dozens of video screens. Every screen flickered with life, all 37 channels of GPE programming playing simultaneously.
Jacobsen hated that desk. The constant flicker of images drew the eye, distracted the mind. The old man knew it, and used it. Another weapon in his arsenal.
"Jacobsen. What do you have to report?"
As if the old man didn't already know.
"There's a problem with the prize for next month's WCX pay-per-view, GS." He took a little pride that he'd kept the tremor out of his voice.
"Yes, so you told me in your last visit." There was a soft whir of gears as the old man descended from the ceiling. He sat in a cast iron chair - he'd owned it during the war, they said - his gnarled, bone-white hands clutching the arm rests. Jacobsen had never seen the old man lift those hands, but he'd heard the stories. "You said the matter was 'under control'."
He swallowed.
"I thought it was. The team of negotiators has never failed me, before."
"Never send a diplomat to do a soldier's job. That was Eisenhower's problem: he kept trying to be one when he should have been the other."
"Yessir." Despite the cold, Jacobsen could feel himself sweating. "But we've had a good working relationship with this tribe for several years, now. I thought that negotiation -"
"We had a good working relationship with Joe Stalin, too." The old man spat the name, "Didn't change the fact that he was a son-of-a-bitch."
"No sir." The first thing you learned at GPE: never argue about the reds. Not that Jacobsen had any intention of doing so, "He was a commie bastard, sir."
"Don't patronise me, Jacobsen." The voice turned cold, "Not when you've come lookin' for me to pull your stones out of the fire."
"Yessir. You have a suggestion, sir?"
"Seems to me like this tribe of yours needs to be a taught a lesson. The kind of lesson that ass Montgomery learned at Arnhem. Don't get greedy."
"Yessir."
"WCX players have to abide by certain rules. Sometimes, an athlete comes along who has all the skills to go to the top, but who can't stick to those rules."
"Sir?"
"I'm sure you have a few people like that on your books, Jacobsen. People who are a danger to themselves and their fellow athletes. People who are a drain on our profits. People who are expendable."
"Yes, sir. I can think of a few."
"Kit them out, open a gate, and send them through. Tell 'em to teach these little bastards a lesson they'll never forget. And tell them to bring back that - what is it they're supposed to get?"
"A golden apple, sir. It has magical healing qualities."
The old man snorted,
"Stupidest thing I've heard since Market Garden. Tell them to bring back that apple. And Jacobsen -"
"Yessir?"
"Send a camera. We may not be able to broadcast this, but I want to know exactly what happens."
"Yes sir, I will sir."
"You'd better. Because if you don't teach those freaky little bastards that nobody messes with George Patton, then I might have to teach you."
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