Ghosts of the Vale

by Paul Grover

  Von Hagen scowled. He did not need Manson to remind him of the timeline. He studied his reflection in the grimy mirror. The uniform was passable. Most D37 Operators on diplomatic detail were big guys; once the body armour was in place, no one would notice the snug fit of the base layer. He ran his fingers through thinning grey hair, studied the wrinkles on his pale dome-dweller skin. Perhaps he was too old for another war; revolutions were the province of youth.

  “Hey Max.” The voice came from the foot of the stairs. Von Hagen sighed and took a final look.

  “What is it Anders?” he said. “Do you need someone to tuck your shirt in? Ask Karl, he has all the answers.”

  “Get down here, Max. There is a spike in comms traffic in and around the stadium,” Anders Richter said.

  Von Hagen lifted his body armour and strapped it to his frame before making his way down the narrow staircase. It creaked with every footfall. He turned in the narrow hall at the foot of the stairs and entered a dimly lit kitchenette.

  Richter sat at a small metal desk, an array of holo-screens in front of him, thick wide band comms cables connecting them to wall sockets. Richter was a tall man with prematurely thinning blond hair. He wore round wire-framed glasses; a curious affectation that said as much about his fear of corrective surgery as it did of his myopia He sat in a threadbare chair, a headset covering one ear. He scribbled on a paper pad using an old style graphite pencil. Karl Manson perched on the edge of the desk, the familiar cocky grin on his face.

  “They’re early, Max. They were not due to sweep the stadium until 10:30 Zulu time, but they are on it now,” Richter said, an edge of panic in his voice.

  Von Hagen had known Richter for a long time, perhaps too long. The man was a morally bankrupt borderline sociopath with an unhealthy interest in young girls. Most of his emotions were fake, except for fear. Richter spooked easily; always for good reason.

  Von Hagen leant over Richter’s shoulder. One of the displays carried a live feed from the lower levels of Olympus Stadium. The screen showed a team of four security officers sweeping through stands with explosive detectors.

  “Have they been backstage yet?” he asked.

  Richter shook his head.

  “When they do, they will seal it and even with our passes we won’t get in,” Manson said.

  Von Hagen studied the feed. He drew air through puckered lips, making a faint whistle.

  “Can you engineer a distraction?” he asked.

  Richter tapped his pencil on the pad.

  “I have total control over the stadium’s systems. I could turn on the sprinklers or access the PA system; maybe give them a blast of feedback.”

  Both options were viable, but also traceable to an external hack.

  “Too localised, they would close the stadium tighter than camel’s arse in a sandstorm,” Manson said.

  Manson had the ability to think big; he was the only member of the team capable of planning on anything more than a basic level. It made him useful and potentially dangerous.

  “Can you cut the power to the whole block? Do it in a way they won’t be able to track easily?” Von Hagen asked.

  Richter typed a rapid sequence of keystrokes.

  “There is a power distribution node in Viking Plaza, three blocks from the stadium. I can scramble it and take down half the city.”

  “How long will it buy us?” Von Hagen asked.

  “I’m guessing three hours, more likely half that.” Richter picked up his pencil and twirled it between his fingers.

  “Give us twenty minutes to get across town then pull the plug,” Von Hagen said. “We go now. Wilkins and Bates are already in place. Karl you are with me.”

  Manson pushed himself off the desk; it swayed under the force. Richter gave him an angry look.

  “Finish strapping yourself in, Max. I’ll be outside, sucking down some shitty recyc air,” Manson said as he walked out.

  Von Hagen waited until he was sure Manson had left. He walked to a picture hanging next to the door, a three-dimensional painting of the view atop Olympus Mons looking toward Gemini Township.

  He took the picture down and removed an envelope stuck to the reverse. He dropped it on the desk.

  “What’s that?” Richter asked.

  “Insurance, in case things go tits up.”

  Von Hagen adjusted the crotch of his ill-fitting uniform and left Richter to his screens. He crossed the street and unlocked an anonymous black electric car. He scanned the dark street and got into the driver’s seat. Manson climbed in the back and stretched out, falling instantly asleep.

  Max Von Hagen started the motor and the car rolled silently away.

  The street lights reflected off the dome in distorted patterns of specular highlights and dirty rainbows. Max Von Hagen drove toward the tunnel linking Dome Four to the Primary Dome. Mariner comprised seventeen interconnected bio-domes; the largest housed the business district and administrative centres. Dome Four was designated for heavy industry and had been neglected since the end of the war. The forgotten dome had become home to criminal gangs and the last remnants of the rebel forces. Martian security forces seldom crossed into Four; when they did, it was usually on a targeted raid.

  Dome Four had been Max Von Hagen’s domain for two years. Tonight was his night. He was a man with everything to play for and little to lose.

  Von Hagen was one of the few who kept the dream of an independent Mars alive; when he was gone there were fewer and fewer like him to continue the fight. He was uncomfortable with David Conway’s involvement but it gave him an opportunity and opportunities had to be taken, lest they become regrets.

  Two hundred and fifty years ago, almost to the day, EarthGov refused to fund a programme to terraform Mars; there would be no blue sky, no fresh air, no fresh water. The decision was political. Mars was the workshop of the solar system. The Martians worked in heavy polluting industries that shortened their life expectancy. Martian children were destined to be born with cancers and deformities just so Earth’s people could enjoy clean air and clean lives. A terraformed Mars would have the wealth to challenge Earth for hegemony in the system. EarthGov had no intention of letting power be wrought from its grasp.

  In 2196 a discovery in a Martian laboratory changed the course of human history when the hyperspatial envelope was unveiled. Mars had delivered humanity the stars and just like everything else the discovery belonged to an Earth Corporation.

  The Frontier had usurped Mars as the Federation’s industrial centre. The red planet had been reduced to a ship yard and cargo hub. When the factories went so did prosperity and the dream of a terraformed Mars was forever ground into red dust.

  At 19 years old Max Von Hagen had learned his history well. He joined Martian Dawn; it was partly a political party, partly a welfare organisation. He rose through the ranks, becoming ever more radical and militant. Eventually he founded the Dawn’s paramilitary arm. He peddled a message of rebellion and romanticised struggle to a disaffected Martian youth. They rallied to his cause and fought under his banner. EarthGov had been swift to brand him a terrorist, but to Martians he was a freedom fighter. The labels never bothered him; they were a side show, a distraction from his dream.

  Eventually he would lead them to war; a war he heroically lost.

  As the galactic economy plunged into free fall, EarthGov finally woke to the disaffection of Martians. The result was a multi-billion-dollar investment in domes and infrastructure. It exceeded rebuilding; regeneration and rebirth were the bywords of the day.

  Most Martians swallowed the bitter bullshit pill and toed the line, becoming good citizens and tugging their collective forelocks to their Terran overlords. Max Von Hagen was not one of them; he would fight for his dream until his final breath of recycled air.

  He steered the car through an underpass; the surreal plexiglass sky was replaced by dirty concrete and xenon lights. After running flat for a kilometre, the tunnel rose. A red X flared on the matrix sign overhead; a barri
er blocked his exit. He slowed the car and brought it to a stop as an armed security operative stepped into the road ahead of him. Von Hagen wound the window down and produced his ID from his breast pocket; the guard studied it.

  “Detachment 37?” the man asked. “What were you doing over in Four? No one notified me.”

  Von Hagen flashed an inoffensive smile tinged with embarrassment.

  “I have downtime and I’ve not been to Mars before. I thought I would go sightseeing and took a wrong turn.”

  The guard snorted. He shone a torch into the back seat.

  “Your buddy had too much?”

  Von Hagen replied with a casual shrug. “You know how it is; got to get it while you can.”

  The guard handed his ID back. Von Hagen tucked it into his top pocket. The officer continued to shine his torch into Von Hagen’s eyes for a few seconds.

  “Listen man, I’ll level with you. If you’re looking for a woman, go to Dome Three and the Casino District; they’re more expensive but you get what you pay for.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it,” Von Hagen replied as the barrier rose in front of him.

  “Don’t mention it. Over there,” he pointed toward Dome Four. “You are more likely to get robbed than laid. Even if you do, you’ll probably end up with something unpleasant.”

  The guard waved him through. Von Hagen started the motor and drove the car clear of the checkpoint.

  As he pulled away the dome lights flickered and went out.

  Manson woke as soon as the motor shut off. He leapt out of the vehicle. They were in an anonymous concrete parking garage. Red cones marked out VIP reservations. The concrete had been cleaned. It was free from stains and the air smelt fresh.

  “The ID got us here then,” Manson said. “Conway is many things, but he’s reliable.”

  Von Hagen snorted. He did not know what Manson’s connection to Vice President Conway was, but it seemed to be a lot closer than he was comfortable with.

  They continued on foot to the main entrance. The lights were still out and the only illumination came from emergency battery lamps, casting the streets with a sickly green twilight.

  The stadium appeared more sombre in the thin light. The external steps were decked with Earth and Martian flags, silent blowers beneath unable to provide a breeze for them to flutter. Giant images of the conflict hung from the top of the high walls. One featured the secondary dome of Columbus cracked open; another carried an image of children covered with dust and in the third a pilot being cut from the cockpit of a crashed ship. The young woman’s helmet was smashed and her face covered with blood. He could see none of the others as they curved around the arc of the stadium’s walls, but imagined they depicted more of the same.

  “What a load of bollocks,” he said. The images had been selected to show the Federal Forces as the good guys and the rebels as aggressors: classic post war propaganda.

  Manson stared at the banners. A confused look on his face.

  “Karl?”

  Manson shook his head as if waking from a dream.

  “The girl on the banner looks familiar…” his voice faltered, and he appeared lost in thought.

  “Guess I’d remember a face like that. Probably killed her or fucked her; maybe both.” He turned away, and they continued toward the stadium.

  Von Hagen approached his men. A zero-gravity pallet loaded with flight cases stood between them. They were offloading the last of the equipment from an electric minivan.

  “Your work, Max?” Chris Wilkins asked. He was a short, slightly built man with a nervous manner.

  “Richter killed the power, we have…” He checked his watch, “about 90 minutes to work this out.”

  “Best get to it.” Marvin Bates was the opposite to Wilkins, tall and confident with a solid, muscular build.

  Manson walked past both men. He smirked at Wilkins, who flinched as he passed.

  “You boys take care of the tunnels?” Manson asked.

  “Aye, we rigged demo charges in three places,” Bates replied.

  The tunnels linked the city to the Marine Barracks three kilometres to the East. Conway had commanded the Marines be confined to base out of respect to the Martians. When it kicked off, the instruction would be overridden by the imperative to restore order. Taking down the tunnels would restrict the movement of the Federal Forces, slow them down enough for Martian Dawn’s foot soldiers to achieve their aims.

  Satisfied, Manson snorted and moved on.

  “You okay Chris?” Von Hagen asked.

  “That guy, he creeps me out.”

  “He’s a necessary evil. Tomorrow we get our planet back and he fucks off.” Von Hagen omitted Manson’s role in planning the operation; the outline existed before his arrival, but he had tightened it and covered a few failings Von Hagen had missed.

  Von Hagen led the way to a service entrance; a flash of ID resulted in them being ushered through.

  “How long before the power comes back on?” he asked the security operator.

  “They’re telling me an hour, but they’ve been telling me that for the last hour. This whole sector is out,” she replied, her voice a bored monotone.

  “Are my people still inside?”

  “Presidential Security? Yeah, they are in the VIP area of the stands, taking a load off. They can’t work in the dark for safety reasons.”

  Von Hagen thanked her and continued on his way, his men guiding the pallet behind them.

  The stage was a raised circular platform in the centre circle of the pitch. Seats radiated out like spokes, extending back to the red cinder running track. Ornate fountains and floral decorations were placed at strategic locations around the platform, tasteful and sombre; many concealed spotlights and holo-cams.

  High in the stands Von Hagen could see handheld torches flashing around. The official security team were continuing with their sweep, their pace hampered by the lack of light.

  “So much for safety. Come on we have to get this done on the bounce,” he said, leading his men to a tunnel that led under the stage.

  The tunnel led to a sub-surface suite of rooms, where tables were laid with cutlery and plates. A bar had been installed in the corner of a changing room.

  “You know the plan; I want the devices installed as per the diagram, prime them and leave them.” Manson said.

  As Wilkins and Bates went about their business, Von Hagen searched for a data terminal. He found one in a small storage room that had been converted to a makeshift control centre for GNN.

  Von Hagen booted the terminal and entered the maintenance password Conway had supplied. He waited while the machine logged into the network then reached into his pocket and retrieved a portable data core. He plugged it into the terminal and drummed his fingers on the desk while the machine recognised it. Von Hagen disabled the system’s anti malware program, switched off the local ice wall and then uploaded a set of programs and a video file.

  Once done he turned off the terminal and removed his core.

  The lights came back on and the air conditioning cooled the room. He stood, pushed the chair back under the desk and left.

  His men were waiting for him.

  “Are we good?”

  “Yes, Max. All twenty devices are installed to the drawings, just like you wanted.”

  He grunted. “Where’s Manson?”

  “Securing the weapons,” Wilkins replied.

  “Let’s seal this area then.”

  They walked up the tunnel. Wilkins closed the door and sealed it with a locking device marked with the special forces crest and a holographic identification code.

  When complete they turned and prepared to leave.

  The official team were walking toward them, their weapons drawn but in a slung position.

  Karl Manson walked in front, his face burning with anger.

  “Commander, these…” Manson glared at the men behind him, contempt in his eyes. “Whatever they are, are preventing me from completing my duties
! It is like working with planks of fucking wood!”

  “What’s going on here? Who are you?” the leader of the security team asked; he wore a Lieutenant’s rank insignia.

  Von Hagen handed him an ID.

  “Commander Harry Young, Detachment 37.”

  “That’s what I told them, D37. The prick still walked me down here like a fucking terrorist,” Manson continued to complain.

  Von Hagen held up a hand to silence him.

  The lieutenant studied the ID and checked it against a wrist mounted datapad.

  “Commander, no one informed me Detachment would be involved with security. I must clear it…”

  “No one told you Lieutenant, because you do not need to know. We are here because we have credible information the Presidential Security Detail is compromised.”

  “Sir?”

  Von Hagen led the man to one side.

  “Lieutenant…” He glanced at the man’s name badge. “Voster. We have inspected and sealed the main areas.” He paused. “If it will make you feel better, I can give you access. Every seal is accounted for and I will need to explain why I have used an additional one in my report.”

  Voster squirmed as if trying to hide his unease. “Sir, that won’t be necessary; your credentials are valid, and we are on the same side.”

  “Thank you, Mr Voster. That saves a lot of administration. I appreciate it. I will request you check the seal so your report is correct and factual.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Lieutenant Voster gestured for one of his men to inspect the seal. Von Hagen did not take his eyes off the Lieutenant until he heard the trooper confirm the validity of the device.

  Von Hagen cast his gaze around the terraces.

  “Has your team completed a full survey of the public area?”

  “Yes sir, ourselves and Bravo Team.”

  “Bravo?”

  “Yes, sir; they are now working through the concourse.”

  “Right, in which case I suggest you offer to help. The power cut has put everything behind time. I don’t want any loopholes when the great and the good descend on us tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir and thank you for your help.”