Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [79]
“Never mind, Sergeant,” Major Boris muttered, noticing that his captains were growing increasingly nervous. “Send for the medics.” He made a gesture toward the hysterical Walters. “Have him declared unfit for command. I’ll promote Lieutenant … Lieutenant …” James Boris flushed. He had always prided himself on remembering the names of the officers under his command, as well as most of the enlisted men, too. Now he couldn’t recall a lieutenant, a man who’d served under him for over a year. “Confound it, whoever’s next in line, have him report here to me in”—he glanced at his visitor—“half an hour,” he concluded coldly.
“Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant, starting back out the door.
“Sergeant!” yelled Major Boris.
“Sir?” The Sergeant turned.
“Get rid of that damn tea! I never drink the stuff. You know that. Why did you bring it?”
The Sergeant looked at the teapot with surprise. “I didn’t bring it, sir,” were the words that were on his lips. A look at his grim-faced Major, however, and he simply removed the teapot, mumbling, “Sorry, sir,” as he picked it up by its handle and carried it into his outer office.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for coming,” James Boris said wearily. It was Rules and Regulations talking, not him. If he had to consciously think about what to say, he couldn’t have spoken a word. “I will take your recommendations under advisement. Dismissed.”
There was the sound of metal scraping against the plastic floor as the captains rose and began to file out. They did so in silence—a bad sign, James Boris knew.
Flicking on the computer, he pretended to be absorbed in reading something on the screen, although in reality he hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was looking at. He didn’t want to talk to any of them anymore; he didn’t want to have to face them or look into their eyes. He felt more than saw the sideways glances they gave him and he knew that they were exchanging looks with one another. Questioning, wondering.
What will he do? Will he send for the ships? Retreat? And what were his orders anyway? Already, of course, the rumors were starting; the Major was no longer in command of the battalion…. They were being led by Menju the Sorcerer, who had seized control when the battle turned sour.
Major Boris could hear the voice of the sergeant shouting into the field phone, attempting to raise the medics. They’d been having trouble with the phones, something about this weird, energy-laden atmosphere the techs told him. One of the captains, probably Collin, had grabbed hold of poor Walters and was leading him out. When everyone was gone, the Sergeant—still on the phone—kicked the door firmly shut.
“Well, what do you want?” Major Boris growled, his eyes on the computer screen, refusing to look at the visitor.
Menju crossed over to stand before his desk. The magician’s eyes were large and gleamed with disarming charm. His skin was tan, his face clean-shaven. His hair was full and thick. Combed back stylishly from a peak in the center of his forehead, its silver gray color contrasted well with his richly tanned skin. State lighting set it off most effectively. Placing the tips of his fingers on the metal, he stared down the length of his handsome nose at the thick-necked and square-jawed Major.
“Rumor has it that you are intending to withdraw,” the man said. His voice matched his appearance—a deep, rich baritone cultivated over years of performing before live audiences.
“And what if I do? I am still in command here!”
Major Boris shut off the computer with an irritated motion, realizing as he did so that he had been staring at a memo he had written several months ago regarding an infraction of the military dress code by female officers. He swore softly to himself. Turning to face Menju, he burned his hand on