Starcraft: I, Mengsk by Graham McNeill

Author:Graham McNeill [McNeill, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2008-12-24T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

ARCTURUS LEANED HIS HEAD BACK AGAINST THE plyboard wall of the office and closed his eyes, letting the hum of the air-heaters and the clicking sound of Lieutenant Cestoda’s typing lull him into a semidoze. It would be at least another half hour before he was admitted into Commander Fole’s office anyway. Appointments with Brantigan Fole were always late. The bullish commanding officer of the 33rd Ground Assault Division of the Confederate Marine Corps kept very much to his own schedule and no one else’s.

Lieutenant Lars Cestoda, the adjutant tasked with keeping track of the commander’s appointments, was a waspish and punctilious man who, at first glance, seemed an unlikely soldier, but who positively thrived on the minutiae of army regulations.

Despite the convection heaters warming the office, Arcturus still felt the chill in the air and pulled his uniform jacket tighter. He’d need to request a new one soon; this one barely fit his broad shoulders and wide chest.

The summons to Commander Fole’s office in Camp Hastings had come out of the blue, as most orders did in the Marine Corps, but this one had the reek of importance to it and thus Arcturus had arrived early, even though he knew it would be a while before the commander deigned to see him.

The outer office was plain and stark, the only items of furniture an uncomfortable couch on which Arcturus sat, a pair of iron filing cabinets (that looked old and battered enough to have come from the Sarengo), and the desk and chair used by Lieutenant Cestoda. A few marine recruitment posters were stuck to the wall with thumbtacks, which seemed a little redundant to Arcturus, since anyone likely to see these posters would already be in the Marine Corps.

Arcturus stood and stretched. He’d been waiting for an hour and had already thumbed through a copy of Battle Flag, the magazine of the CMC. The paper version of the magazine had long since been replaced by digi-tome editions—and this copy had seen better days. Cestoda looked up in irritation as Arcturus rose to his feet.

“Something I can do for you, Captain?” asked Cestoda, as though Arcturus had violated some unwritten rule of the office.

“No,” said Arcturus. “Just stretching my legs. Do you have any idea when the commander will be available?”

“Presently.”

“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago.”

“Then you shouldn’t have needed to ask again.”

Arcturus approached Cestoda’s desk and perched on the edge, knowing it would annoy the man. Sure enough, Cestoda glared at him, but Arcturus met his stare with one of his own.

“You are aware of the etymology of your name, I presume?” asked Arcturus, picking up a stylus from the desk. Cestoda snatched it back.

“The what?”

“Etymology,” repeated Arcturus slowly. “It means the origins of words and how they arrived at their current meaning. I was asking if you knew what your name means.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Cestoda. “It’s just a name.”

“On the contrary, my dear fellow, in times past, a man’s name was what defined him.

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