TW09 The Lilliput Legion NEW (4 page)

"Then you think that I should just look the other way and on with business, is that it?" said Forrester, in a level tone

"I guess it doesn't matter what I think, sir, because you're not going to do that, are you?" Steiger had said.

"No, Colonel, I'm not. I can't. I'm just not built that way.”

"Then with your permission, sir. I'd like to take charge the operation. I know at least a few people in the agency that I could count on and who might just be crazy enough to take something like this."

"No, Colonel," said Forrester. "I appreciate the offer, but I want you to remain on standby status with Cross and Delany. With the current crisis, I need my best temporal mission team available on a moment's notice. I intend to assemble a special strike force to deal with this so-called Network. It will be composed of former members of the First Division, people I know the Network hasn't got its hooks into. And most of them have some experience with 'throwing the book right out the window and playing hardball,' as you put it. I intend to clean house, Colonel. Make no mistake about it, I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to get the job done.
I'm
the one running this outfit, not a bunch of underground profiteers and scam artists."

"I think you'll find that they're a little more than just profiteers and scam artists, sir," said Steiger. "At least let me help organize the strike force while I remain on standby. I have some idea of what they'll be going up against. I can point them in the right direction, maybe keep them from making some mistakes. And it might create less friction in the agency if the former senior covert field agent was officially heading up the strike force, rather than having it all be a First Division show."

"All right," said Forrester. "I see your point. But I don't want you going out on any field operations, is that understood? I need you available, on standby with your team."

"Understood, sir. May I have your security detail take me into custody now for immediate scanning?"

Forrester frowned. "What for?"

"I want to have myself scanned so that you can be absolutely certain that I'm not involved with the Network. And I'd like to be taken into custody at once so that you'd be certain I'd have no time to warn them if I were," said Steiger.

Forrester shook his head. "That won't be necessary, Colonel. I'd be a damned sorry commanding officer if I couldn't pick an exec that I knew I could trust."

"I appreciate that, sir," said Steiger, "but just the same, I'd like to insist. I want to be able to say that I did it, that I didn't get any preferential treatment, that I got on the machines and passed. I can't expect to ask anybody else to do it if I don't."

"I see," said Forrester, nodding. He summoned his security detail. "Sergeant, place Col. Steiger under arrest."

Finn and Andre hadn't seen much of him since he'd taken command of the Internal Security Division, but they had sure heard a lot about him. In a matter of weeks, Steiger had organized the I.S.D., composed largely of handpicked commandos from the First Division, some head busters borrowed from the M.P.'s and a few trusted T.I.A. agents. He had whipped them into shape as a tight, well-coordinated unit and brought down twenty-seven section chiefs who were functioning as cell commanders in the Network. Steiger had hit hard and fast and he had made his presence known. He, along Forrester, was a marked man now.

"Creed, what's going on?" said Finn.

"I don't know," said Steiger. "I only just got here. I got a call a few minutes ago and hurried right up."

"The general will see you now," the sergeant of the gut said, beckoning, them to follow him. He conducted them do, the hall to Forrester's private quarters, then left them. Forrester was waiting for them, fully dressed in his black base fatigues It was three o'clock in the morning and he looked wide awake

"At ease," said Forrester, tensely. "Bar's open. Delaney, the honors."

They exchanged quick glances, then Delaney went over the bar and poured a couple of neat Scotches for Andre and Creed, and an Irish for himself. He saw that Forrester already had a glass on the end table.

"To those who fell," said Forrester, after they all had the drinks. They all stiffened slightly, then tossed back the drinks, emptying their glasses.

Forrester sighed. "Your brother's dead, Creed," he said, flatly.

Steiger paled. "Sandy?" He blinked twice, his breath caught and then he swallowed hard and stiffened, getting control himself. "How did it happen?" he said, softly.

"Sit down," Forrester said. They all sat. Forrester tool folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Steiger "That is your brother's handwriting, isn't it?" he said.

Steiger unfolded the paper and glanced at the shorthand notation. He nodded.

"Read it out loud," said Forrester.

" Field Observer Report, Cpl. Steiger, A. P., T#617079972, Post 17-259, 29 April 1702, 1930 hours, Headquarters." Steiger took a deep breath, cleared his throat and continued. "At approximately 1800 hours, encountered Dr. Lemuel Gulliver in the company of Mr. Jonathan Swift at Pontack's eating house in Abchurch Lane."

Delaney frowned.
"What
were those names again?" he said.

"As you were, Delaney," Forrester said. "Hold thought." He turned to Steiger. "Go on."

"Dr. Gulliver claimed to be the sole survivor of a ship wreck," Steiger read, "the
Antelope,
under Capt. William Prichard, reportedly lost at sea somewhere off Van Diemen's Land. The man was in a state of near nervous collapse. He had been drinking heavily, but his report of encountering miniature people, approximately six inches in height—"

“
What?"
said Andre.

Forrester silenced her with a look. Steiger continued.

" . . . approximately six inches in height, created quite a stir. Most people hearing this reacted as if he were demented, but certain elements of his fascinating story drew this particular observer's attention. Dr. Gulliver described, in great detail, some of the weapons used by these little people, or Lilliputians, as his companion, Mr. Swift, referred to them. From the lucid description of these miniature weapons and their function, they were unquestionably miniature lasers and autopulsers."

Steiger stopped for a moment and glanced up at Forrester with astonishment, then continued reading the report.

"From the description of their uniforms and tactics, these so-called lilliputians' sounded exactly like modern commandos, only on an incredible, miniature scale. The story sounds unbelievable, until one asks himself how a man of Gulliver's time could possibly imagine weapons such as lasers and autopulsers and describe their function in such accurate detail, right down to reporting the extremely high-pitched, staccato, whooping sound made by a cycling autopulser—the extremely high pitch possibly accounted for by the scale of the weapon. Taking into account the fantastic genetically engineered creatures from the alternate timeline previously encountered by temporal adjustment agents on—"

The expression on Steiger's face abruptly changed. “What is it?" Andre said.

Steiger looked-up, "It stops there." He glanced at Forrester."Do we have
conformation on this?"

Forrester nodded. "Your brother was very thorough in noting the time and the location. I had an S & R team clock back. I took special care to instruct them not to risk arriving any earlier than an hour after the stated time in the report. You understand, of course."

Steiger nodded.

"Search and Retrieve clocked back with your brother's body about half an hour ago," said Forrester. "We have full confirmation."

"I'd like to see him, sir."

"I'm told he looks pretty bad, Creed," said Forrester.

"I don't give a damn. Sir."

Forrester nodded. "I understand. But you're to report directly back here when you're through. I have a security detail standing by to escort you."

"I don't need a goddamn—"

"As you were, Colonel," Forrester said, quietly, and Steiger immediately shut up. "I'm not insensitive to your feelings at the moment. However, there have been threats against your life and you are understandably distracted. You will accompany the detail and return here when you're through. Is that clear?"

Steiger licked his lips and took a deep breath. "Yes, Sir."

"Good. You are dismissed."

Steiger stood, snapped to attention and saluted smartly. As he turned to leave, Forrester stopped him.

"Creed?"

"Sir?

“I’m sorry as hell, my friend."

Steiger grimaced and -nodded curtly. "Thank you, sir."

As he left, Delaney said, "I think I'd like another drink, sir." Forrester nodded. "Get me one, too," he said.

"What killed him, sir?" asked Andre.

Forrester hesitated. "Laser rifles," he said, softly. "Miniature laser rifles."

It was Sandy. There was no question of it, though there was not much left of him to recognize. His body looked as if a dozen psychopathic surgeons had been at work on it with laser scalpels. Sandy had fought before he died. He had fought hard, but it hadn't helped him any. Steiger turned away, struggling to control his emotions. Sandy had been all the family he had left. The white-coated pathologist slid the long drawer holding Sandy's body back into the freezer.

Steiger blamed himself. When they were children, Sandy had always been the weaker one, smaller and more delicate. He was much more sensitive to things and much less aggressive. He had always been more naturally empathic and more thoughtful than his older brother. His strengths, Creed knew, lay in different areas than his own, but unfortunately, that was something that their father never understood. Victor Steiger had been a lumbering ox of a man, with all the inner sensitivity of a tree trunk. He had valued Creed's obvious gifts over Sandy's more subtle ones. Consequently, Creed was always held up as a model to his younger brother and Sandy was often mercilessly taunted by their father for not being able to match Creed's athletic abilities. Privately, Creed always sought to reassure his younger brother, trying to minimize the hurt caused by their father's scorn of him, but the damage had been irrevocable. Sandy had always felt, deep down inside, that he simply didn't measure up.

Creed had been against his entering the service. Not because he didn't think that Sandy would make a good soldier, but because he knew that making a soldier out of Sandy would be like trying to hammer a square peg into a round hole. A scientist, perhaps, or better still, an artist; some sort of creative profession would have suited Sandy perfectly and given him more joy, but Sandy had insisted on following in his older brother's footsteps. It was as if the shade of their dead father still loomed over them and Sandy felt he had to prove that he could measure up. And now he was dead.

Steiger shut his eyes and struggled to get his emotions back under control. If only he could travel back through time and, change things, save his brother's life or get to him even earlier when he was still only a small boy, and explain to him that those things which their father saw as weaknesses were not weaknesses at all, but simply different strengths their father couldn't recognize for what they were. If only he had known then what he knew now, he could have done ever so much more than merely reassure his younger brother each time he failed to live up to their father's expectations.

And the hardest part of it all was knowing that he had the ability to do just that—he had the ability to travel back in time. But he would not. He
could
not.

Something like that was against all regulations and for damned good reasons. It was too dangerous. There was no telling what could happen if you went back into the past and confronted your own relatives or even yourself when you were younger. To do that meant to risk creating a temporal paradox, one that might not be severe enough to split the timeline, but one that could create profound changes in your own life, changes that would be completely unpredictable, changes that could set off a chain of circumstances that would lead to even greater temporal contamination.

"Come on," Steiger said to his security escort, two armed M.P.'s who had been waiting at a respectful distance while viewed his brother's remains. "Let's get the hell out of here.”

As the M.P.'s turned to go out through the doors, Steiger heard several sharp, rapid, chuffing sounds and something whizzed past his left ear. The bullet took one of the M.P.'s in the back of the head and exited through his forehead, splattering brains, blood and bone fragments all over the door. As Steiger threw himself to one side and clawed for his sidearm, he felt the second bullet graze the lower part of his lat muscle on the left side. The second M.P. went down before his weapon had a chance to clear its holster. Steiger rolled and fired. The low intensity plasma charge struck the pathologist in the chest, burned a fist-sized hole right through him and dissipated on the wall behind him in a brief, incandescent burst of flame and smoke.

Steiger slowly got to his feet and winced with pain. He was bleeding from the side. He ripped open his shirt and checked the wound. Luckily, it was only superficial. The amount of blood always made a flesh wound look much worse than it really was. The M.P.'s, unfortunately, hadn't been so lucky. Both of them were dead.

"Damn!"
Steiger swore through clenched teeth.

A young doctor dressed in surgical greens came through the door abruptly.

Steiger, his nerves ragged, almost shot him.

"What the hell . . ." the doctor's eyes grew wide at the sight of Steiger's plasma pistol, then he saw the dead bodies on the floor. "Oh, my God!"

"Who're you?" said Steiger.

"What happened here?"

"Answer my damn question!"

"I . . .
I'm Dr. Philip Torvalt, pathology resident."

"You know that man?" Steiger asked the young doctor, indicating the dead assailant in the lab coat. "He one of your people?"

Torvalt glanced again at the slain M.P.'s, then approached the assassin's corpse, glanced down at him, swallowed hard and shook his head. "No. No, I've never seen this man before." He looked back up at Steiger. "What the hell happened here? I was . . Colonel, you're wounded!"