Supplanted
Chapter 3: Dangerous Liasons

“James! Come in; sit down; have a drink. Boy, was that a rough first day, or what?” Eric seemed to be in a jocular mood. The First Lieut. came in behind me. “Pour us a pair of single malts, please, LT.” His sarcastic referral to Lieutenant LaTourno as L.T. was temporarily lost on me.

I was ushered to an overstuffed leather horseshoe shaped couch surrounding a rectangular gilded glass and brass coffee table set in the center of the room. Eric’s tastes hadn’t changed in nine years: overstuffed, gaudy and ugly.

The General stepped to his bay window that was now to my left and looked out pensively. Well, he struck a pensive pose and stared out into space at least. The First Lieutenant went across the room to a large, well stocked sideboard where he kept an eye on both of us in the mirrored backboard as he poured our drinks.

The General’s aides had obviously been working overtime on setting up his office. He had a huge mahogany desk that I couldn’t believe fit through the door. At least I think it was mahogany. The desk was set upon a riser and was flanked by blue and gold desk lamps decorated with dual star emblazoned shades. Apart from the desk necessities – marble pen holder, green blotter, computer, holo-vid-phone, sword shaped letter openers – it was devoid of paper or any other signs of work or general clutter.

The desk capped the open end of the overstuffed horseshoe shaped couch. The walls each had three framed items equidistantly hung on them: pictures of Eric with other seemingly important people, medals under glass, the Mona Lisa or some such famous paintings.

The sideboard to the right across from where I sat housed a wet bar stocked with every shade of liquor in every shape of bottle. LaTourno was now finished pouring two generous glasses of brown whiskey. He brought them over to me on a silver tray. Eric stepped between us and handed me a glass.

“To old friends, survivors and a new peace,” the General declared. We downed our drinks in single gulps. I choked somewhat on my beverage. I’m not used to hard liquor any more. Eric laughed at my predicament.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy? Lose your liquor legs out here in the Boonies?” he said as if he would know.

“Yeah,” I coughed. “Lost them . . . long time ago. And you know that I hate to be called Jimmy.” I tried not to sound too offended or angry.

“Sorry, James. So, what brings you to Wilson’s World?”

I was perplexed; shouldn’t I be asking him that question? “The war. I’ve been assigned here since losing . . . leaving . . .” I tried to cover my personal gaff with more coughing.

Eric became sympathetic. “I know, I know. You forget, my old friend, I knew your family as well way back when. A shame how they ended up. Did you ever find out how it happened?”

“Enemy ambush. I don’t talk about it. Everyone here has lost most everyone they knew. And loved. Here on Wilson’s World, we have an unwritten rule about not delving into anyone’s personal lives too deeply. We’re all refugees from somewhere. Prying tends to upset the locals.” Eric’s sympathy evaporated.

“Make note of that, Lieutenant. No prying into families or the past. Too many questions sink ships, you know. Now, tell me what you’ve been up to.” He sat across from me and accepted another drink from the Lieutenant, obviously ignoring my veiled warning.

“Nothing to tell,” I balked. “I fly my patrol missions, tend my farm; after every harvest I bring my crops to the feed depot to trade for what I need; once in a while I bring a chicken or some eggs. We’re not much on formalities here. We do what it takes to survive and leave the frivolous activities to the inner planets that can afford them.” My continuous hints went unnoticed. It was from that day that I learned that a veiled protest has no effect on commanding officers.

“Good, good. I hear that you’re a Captain for the first squadron. Impressive for one so young.” He was obviously fishing for a compliment. I decided to oblige.

“And what about you? A Major General at twenty one. How did that happen?” I snickered melodramatically. The General didn’t share my feigned amusement.

Eric seemed to go ashen. He motioned for the lieut. to leave the room. Once LaTourno was out, I heard a confession that I only repeat for the sake of its historical context.

“As you may recall, I made sergeant fresh out of basic. I was first assigned to the Delta sector, Beta quadrant, to serve as a line cook to the ground forces stationed there. Ground forces, can you imagine?” He seemed to lose his train of thought momentarily in the obvious amusement at the obsolete notion of ground forces being in existence in a war that was primarily fought in space.

“In less than a month, I was transferred to Delta quadrant as a Staff Sergeant to serve as a mess hall cook with the Fighting 57th. This was shortly before the Delta Push of ’73. We lost a lot of good men back then.” I thought he might elaborate, but he didn’t. “Anyways, just like every combat unit, I made my way up through the ranks by outliving my superiors; there’s an old kitchen joke that applies here, but I’ll tell it to you later; since, as you know, every soldier in the military sees combat regardless of his regular duties. I had recently been promoted to top sergeant when I met Lilly.”

His demeanor brightened briefly as he related a happy memory. “It was love at first sight. You’d have liked her, James. She had a sunny disposition that made everyone in her presence forget about the horrors of war for a while. Her picture is on the wall behind you.”

I turned around and looked. I saw an enlarged photo in the center of the wall of a radiant young woman in the bloom of youth dressed in a wedding gown that made her look like an angel - standing beside a younger Eric decked out in full tuxedo. She was beautiful. He looked nervous. I could tell by Eric’s return to sobriety that this story did not have a happy ending.

“Yes, we married. I was eighteen, she was sixteen. She was also the General’s daughter. He couldn’t see her marrying a non-com, so I was promoted to the rank of Captain and served as his aide-de-camp for two years. Oh, I can sense your disapproval, but I can tell you in all honesty that I made a great officer.

“To make a long story short, they were both killed in battle. He on his command carrier, she on the ground of the planet he was sworn to protect. I wasn’t . . .” He trailed off. I thought he might become overemotional until he composed himself and continued.

“In the aftermath, I was promoted to Colonel and transferred to the Rough Riders. I was put in charge of an infantry/fighter battalion. What a farce, eh? An army cook put in charge of one of the most decorated units in the universe. I won’t tell you about my first battle as their leader. Suffice it to say that I survived. Most of my men didn’t. Those that did were amply rewarded.” He pretended to polish one of the larger medals pinned to his chest with his jacket cuff; obviously to draw my attention to it.

“Our second battle went little better, but not any worse,” he grinned unconvincingly. “After which, reinforcements arrived and my unit was transferred to a more secure location in the rear for training purposes. We trained with new recruits for six months; then we went back into battle. Our third battle together was the bloodiest, but we emerged victorious, and I had managed to survive; whereas, many of the great men that I had begun my first command with did not. I would eventually become the longest surviving member of my fighter battalion, and it only took three more battles.”

Again I thought there would be more information, but he continued on without giving anything extra. I was becoming interested in the circumstances that made up his battle experience, not out of morbid curiosity, but out of a desire to know what experiences had molded my old friend and new commanding officer. But the details I was hoping for were not forthcoming. I don’t think I ever heard Eric go into any details about his war experiences. He continued on about his promotional history.

“Well, as you are no doubt aware, survivors get promotions. I was immediately promoted to Brigadier General and put in command of the Freedom Fighters. None of my subordinates know the circumstances of my true rise to power, and I don’t expect them to find out any time soon. They’re dazzled by the medals I’ve been awarded for surviving so many battles. If they only knew, eh?” He took another shot of whiskey. “Well, two years and many more successful battles later; all due to the exceptional quality of my subordinates, mind you, I have arrived here.

“Let it be known to all who ask, I have surrounded myself with the most accomplished bunch of great officers and gentlemen that ever fought a battle and lived to tell about it. So, here we are. Any questions?” He said it as if it were a challenge, not an invitation to pump him for more information.

“Several,” I admitted to myself, but the only one I was able to voice was, “What’s the story behind your aide, that Lieutenant LaTourno?”

Eric seemed to levitate at the redirection of the conversation. “I’ll bring him in and you can ask him yourself.” I wasn’t prepared for this. I’m not good at meeting new people and grilling them about themselves. I suppose it’s because of my living on Wilson’s World for so long. The General activated the intercom.

“Lieutenant LaTourno, would you come back in here, please. The Captain has a few questions for you.” The First Lieutenant reentered the room. I could tell he was in no mood to engage in polite discourse, or to answer any personal questions either. He was wearing a softer version of the face that I dreaded to see.

“Yes, sir?” he addressed me with little concealed venom.

“I only wanted to know your first name, Lieutenant. It seems to me that if we’re to be working so closely together that, well, in moments of less, um, strictness we should be able to address each other in more . . . friendly terms.” I lied, but I had to find a way out of this situation. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with my old friend’s changes in demeanor and candor, whereas I was unwilling to open up to him. I did, however, admire my own quick-wittedness in formulating an innocuous question for the LT; or so I thought.

The Lieut. turned to the General and asked, “Do I have to, sir?”

Eric laughed. “Only if you feel the need to . . . keep your job, that is.”

LaTourno sighed deeply. “It’s Le-MON-jello, sir.” He said with great emphasis on the middle syllable. I was taken aback.

“It’s all in the pronunciation, sir,” he continued. “I don’t like people to know my given name. It was the subject of much ridicule in my youth, and ever since, to everyone who has, to my great misfortune, ever learned it.”

I was even more uncomfortable. “It will not be a matter of ridicule with me, Lieutenant. But I do feel that I need to call you by something other than Lieutenant, or LaTourno, in social situations. Would it be agreeable to you if I simply called you LT?”

“If that’s what you decide, sir,” he said flatly.

I got the feeling that LT was not going to be a social creature regardless of how he was to be addressed. Still, we had an appointment at O’Malley’s at 8:15 and I couldn’t go on calling him LaTourno all evening. At least as long as the evening might go, and it wasn’t shaping up to be a very festive or lengthy one.

“LT it is, then,” Eric decided for me. “And at least it’s better than his sister’s moniker. Go ahead, LT,” the General prompted with unhidden glee. “Tell him your sister’s name.” The lieut. hesitated again.

“G’-NOR-rhea,” he emphasized between clenched teeth. I refrained from laughing. “But we call her Gaia.”

“I’ll take this information with me to my grave,” I assured him. “So, I’ll see you later at O’Malley’s. General, it’s been a pleasure.” I made my way for the door. I had hoped to get out of there without further embarrassment. No such luck. The General’s voice stopped me from getting out unscathed.

“Oh, Johansson, I’ve decided to promote you to Major. Effective immediately. Pick up your new insignia on your way out. You can thank me later.” I would have to find an appropriate means to that end.

“Thank you, sir,” I said as my grip on the door handle turned my knuckles white.

“Don’t mention it,” he chortled. “I’ve had the papers drawn up since before we landed.”

I finally got away from my old friend and his stodgy aide-de-camp. It took me an hour to get home, dislodge my dress green uniform, shower, eat and dress for O’Malley’s. I had high hopes for an uneventful evening. I just hoped above all that Ron and LT were of like minds.

No sooner had I closed the door to my house to make my way to the city for an evening out when the alert siren sounded from the spaceport. I quickly rushed back inside to grab my flight suit, then rushed back outside to join my unit at our assembly point. A social drink would have to wait, along with the accompanying attempt at smoothing over the fractured relationships of others.

I couldn’t help but concentrate my worrying on the coming battle. Would it prove to be the undoing of the young and fragile peace process? Was this evidence of the future, as in the absence of peace all together? How would our new commanding officers fair in the heat of combat in the unfamiliar gamma sector? And the ever popular: is this going to be my last battle?

I didn’t have long to think about it. My four-wheeler wasn’t up to its best responsive behavior, and I really didn’t want to be late for my first battle as a Major, even though I didn’t have time to update my flight suit insignia. I cursed under my breath until my ride finally came to life. The trip to the rendezvous point was a blur as I was lost in my thoughts. I still can’t remember how I got there and back.

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