Ghosts of the Vale

by Paul Grover

“You’re welcome Mr Voster. When we’ve packed them all off home, look me up and we’ll grab a beer. Detachment is always looking for new talent.”

  “Yes, sir!” Voster saluted and led his team away.

  Von Hagen turned to his men and laughed.

  “Fucking prick.” He spat on the cinder running track.

  Manson was laughing.

  “Well, check you out Max! You can put on quite a show,” Manson said. “Man when this is over you should consider a job in the theatre.”

  Von Hagen took a breath and held it. His heart pounded. He lunged forward and grabbed Manson.

  “Shut the fuck up. Have you any idea how close we came to blowing everything? We have one chance. One fucking chance.”

  Manson broke free and pushed Von Hagen into the wall with such force he struggled to regain his breath.

  “Don’t touch me Max, not now, not after you win your little war, never.”

  Von Hagen stared into Karl Manson’s dark eyes; something there made him shudder. Manson released him and made a show of straightening Von Hagen’s uniform. Manson glanced at Marvin Bates.

  “High stakes, Master Bates, makes everyone’s blood run a little high.”

  After an awkward pause, they made their way to the service entrance and booked out.

  Wilkins and Bates disappeared into the neon night.

  Media crews and journalists were showing up in electric trucks. Techs hooked their equipment into power outlets and preening reporters searched for dramatic backdrops.

  Von Hagen studied Manson’s face, sallow in the Dome’s night cycle lighting. The man’s rugged features stood at odds to his smooth, unblemished skin. There was something off about Manson and Von Hagen could not work out what it was.

  “You have your accommodation sorted?” Von Hagen asked.

  “Oh yes, got myself a sweet little thing lined up tonight Max. You know I can hit you up too, might help you chill a little.”

  Von Hagen declined and walked into the night. The lights had come back on and city life had returned to normal; he mingled with groups of late night tourists, drawn to the stadium to soak up the pre-ceremony atmosphere.

  “You need to lighten up, Max!” Manson called after him, his voice all but lost amongst the murmured conversations.

  Von Hagen walked for a while before booking in at a low rent hotel. He found his room, lay on the bed and fell asleep.

  The insistent chime of the communicator drilled into Von Hagen’s brain, rousing him from his dreamless slumber. He sat up and answered the device.

  “What?”

  “Max,” Anders Richter said. “Our people are in place. Everyone has the seating plan and the kill list… Max, Vanessa Meyer is on the list. She is the only ally we have ever had in EarthGov.”

  Von Hagen grunted.

  “Times change, Anders. No one makes a move until we strike at the stadium. Timing is everything.”

  “Understood.”

  “Anders…” Von Hagen said. “Make sure you keep yourself in line.”

  “Max?”

  “You know what I am talking about. When we take control, you live within the law. I won’t ask you again.”

  There was a pause.

  “Yes, Max, I understand.”

  The link closed with a click. Von Hagen stretched and twisted to loosen his muscles. He sat on the edge of the bed and gathered his thoughts. The room was a typical low-cost, no-questions-asked hotel room; the kind of place used to make low budget holo-porn or trade drugs and arms for dirty money. It was not a room where revolutions started.

  He stood and walked to the sink, fixed to the far wall with a pair of rusty brackets. He cleaned his teeth then splashed cold water on his face. A ghost of stubble haunted his chin.

  He dressed in his body armour and left the room. Thin daylight drizzled through the dome, the internal temperature a muggy eighteen degrees. He stopped on his way and bought a coffee and a bagel from a street vendor.

  “I got real tank-grown bacon!” the bagel guy said with pride. “Borrowed from the Earth delegation!”

  Von Hagen paid the man and ate as he walked.

  Everything was in place. His forces were positioned at key locations throughout the city and in Mars’ three primary settlements: Columbus, Cydon City and Olympus. They numbered a thousand, a fraction of those who fought with him during the war, but a few people in the right places would be all he needed.

  The plan was simple. When the attack on the stadium went down, his people would seize the state infrastructure.

  With a new President in charge, negotiations would follow, and Mars would be free of Earth control.

  He would win Mars; Conway would win the Presidency. It had been quite a bargain, too good to turn down and so an unlikely trust had been struck.

  Conway’s kill list had come as an unexpected condition to the deal. It comprised 93 senators the Vice President wanted eliminated. Vanessa Meyer was top of the list. Von Hagen shrugged off the feeling of guilt. They were all Terrans, all as bad as each other.

  He arrived at the Stadium, looking up at the bloody images of war adorning the walls. The war was a waste, but it had brought him this opportunity. The sacrifices of the fallen warriors of The Dawn would be avenged.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SECOND Chance entered a descending orbit of the red planet. Local controllers had verified the ident code and movement orders supplied by Flynt. They were directed to a military base three kilometres from Mariner’s primary dome; to Mira it was like coming home.

  The ship dropped low and the red surface sped beneath them. A knot formed in her stomach and a lump in her throat. The ship shook as the atmosphere slowed their descent. The Kobo’s unwieldy brick like design made it ill-suited for atmospheric flight; no matter how thin the atmosphere.

  “Are you okay?” Tish asked.

  Mira did not answer, she was unable to form words, her mind was spinning. She was transported back in time. She knew this terrain like she knew herself. Danger lurked inside every micro dome and recessed canyon; every peasant had a rifle and right now they were pointing at her.

  She pushed the throttle forward, dropping the Kobo low, coming off the prescribed glide path and toward safety of the nap of the land.

  Warnings sounded on the flight deck.

  “Altitude! Altitude! Altitude!” the female robotic voice warned. She ignored it and pressed lower. “Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!” the ship’s automated warning system continued with the unwanted advice.

  “Mira! What are you doing?” Tish cried.

  “We have to go low. This is SAM alley. The Dawn come up here and take pot shots at us on final approach.”

  In the last months of the war Martian Dawn’s forces changed tactics to launch random attacks on Federal forces. They aimed to inflict heavy losses, hoping to destroy the morale of flight crews. They almost succeeded.

  Sweat broke on Mira’s brow. The sluggish handling made it difficult to follow the contours of the land. She could do it; she could get them home…

  Tish called for Barnes.

  What’s he doing here? The cockpit is off limits to jarheads…

  “Stay strapped, Rich. This will be rough. I have it. I’ll…”

  The ship was handling badly. She would need to file a maintenance report as soon as had the bird on the deck. The vessel was sluggish, the controls unresponsive.

  Have we been hit?

  “Mira! We are too low!” Tish screamed.

  Mira focused.

  Fuck… what am I doing? The war is done…

  She pulled up and retarded the throttles. Breathing heavily, she wiped the sheen of sweat from her face. She shivered as it cooled on her body.

  Barnes came onto the deck. Tish motioned for him to stop. Mira trimmed the ship for a standard approach.

  “I’m sorry…” she said, the words spoken through trembling lips. “I don’t know what happened. I was back there, in the war. Tish take control; bring us in.”

&n
bsp; “No,” Tish replied. “I trust you. You had a flashback and you are over it. You need to do it. If you don’t that’ll be it, you’ll never fly again.”

  Mira knew Tish was right. It was how you lost it; the razor’s edge of confidence every flyer needed. This would be her first surface landing since the crash. She needed to do it, to prove to herself she still could.

  It could have been anywhere, but it had to be here.

  “What if I lose it again?”

  “Then I’ll knock you out and land the ship myself,” Tish replied. “It won’t come to that.”

  Traffic contacted them. The voice sent shivers down her spine. “Second Chance, Mars High. We detected a significant deviation on your flight path. Please confirm everything is within parameters.”

  It was flight speak for “is your ship compromised by pilot or external force.”

  “Affirmative Mars High… just a minor misunderstanding. Our pilot is inexperienced. We are back in the pipe and intend to stay there,” Tish responded.

  Mars High acknowledged and signed off.

  “I’m sorry…” Mira apologised again.

  Mira followed the glide slope toward the spaceport, bringing the Kobo to rest on an external pad far from the barracks. Shutting down took ten minutes as she and Tish worked through the checklist.

  When they were done Mira took a long look out of the viewport. She knew this place well; it had been her home for nearly two years. Diplomatic transports were lined up on the flight line, their sleek silhouettes in sharp contrast to the box-like Cobras she was used to seeing there.

  “I guess we suit up and head into the barracks,” Mira said.

  “Nope, they are sending a transport. You are an Admiral now,” Barnes said. He tipped her the informal salute used by non-commissioned officers in the Corps.

  Two minutes later a ground car arrived and attached an air corridor to their starboard lock.

  Mira pushed her seat back and headed aft to change into her dress uniform. Tish followed.

  They dressed in silence. Mira paused and watched as Tish let her flight suit drop to the deck, admiring her long legs.

  “I can feel you staring, Thorn.” Tish turned and smiled.

  Mira finished fastening her tunic and looked at herself in the floor to ceiling mirror.

  Ever the fraud, she thought as she attached her medals, at least these are genuine.

  “You’ll need this,” Tish said, handing her an eyepatch. “Sorry, but we can’t let anyone find out about your reboot.”

  Mira slipped it into place. The tiny piece of material symbolised heartache. She shivered as she made a final change to its position. Her old self stared back at her.

  “I don’t miss myself,” she whispered.

  She turned to face Tish who wore the deep blue uniform with three rows of buttons well. It suited her tall lithe frame. Her hair was tied in a bun, everything completely within fleet regulations.

  “The uniform suits you, Ensign.”

  “You look good yourself.” Tish moved to her and slipped an arm around her waist. “Do you think Jono will let us keep these when we’re done… they could be useful.”

  “I guess, why?”

  “Role playing, you can be a Space Admiral and I can be a Pirate Queen. You can spank me for intersolar piracy!” Tish laughed.

  “You want me to spank you?” Mira giggled.

  “Maybe…”

  “For piracy?”

  Tish ran from the stateroom, laughing as she left.

  “Joking!” she said as she passed through the door.

  Mira watched her go in a flash of blue uniform and red hair.

  “Not joking!” Tish’s voice echoed back from further down the corridor.

  Mira closed her eyes.

  “I love you. You’re crazy and I love you,” she whispered. The words came easily when uttered in an empty compartment. She checked her medals were fastened correctly and followed Tish to the airlock.

  The transport carried them in silence to the entrance of the facility. A steel door slid upward, and they passed through an atmosphere sealing ion curtain. The gull wing doors of the car opened, and Mira stepped into a familiar hangar.

  Aside from a few suborbital craft the space was empty. The steel walls and grey concrete floor were lit by xenon strip lights hanging from cables attached to the high ceiling.

  Mira shivered and her breath fogged in the air. Tish had her arms pulled tight around her chest, her teeth chattering.

  They were met by a woman in a DipCorps uniform. She introduced herself as Zoe Sinclair.

  “Admiral Thorn, it is a pleasure to meet you. Please accept my apologies for a civilian reception; your late arrival has meant our honour guard is already in the city. I understand you arrived on a civilian transport?”

  “Perks of being in the reserve; I haul cargo when I’m not dressed in a monkey suit,” Mira replied with an easy lie. “And I don’t want an honour guard. I’m not that important.”

  “I understand, but when word of your arrival made it into the public domain several news agencies requested interviews, war hero and survivor of the Berlin; you have quite a story to tell.”

  “No interviews,” Mira said, her tone flat and emphatic. Her attention was being drawn to the far side of the hangar.

  “Not a problem Admiral; I will draft a press release, stating how you are honoured to be attending and today is about remembering the sacrifice…”

  “Perfect,” Mira said. “May I?” She pointed to three titanium plates hanging on the wall of the hangar.

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  Mira walked across the concrete floor to the far wall. Everything was the same. The familiar smell of lubricant, sweat and damp filled her nose as her boots echoed in the cavernous space.

  Two panels had been hung here during her time on base, the third and largest a new addition. She swallowed hard as she studied it.

  The sheet was a battered nose panel from a Cobra, specifically KK-1113. It was scarred and pitted. The plate was adorned with a picture of a curvaceous woman in a catsuit and leather thigh boots; she held a riding crop in a gloved hand. The name Kinky Karla arched above the figure in red letters. Beneath the artwork were the words Keep Fighting Mouse, written in red paint.

  “Dark Side and Turkish Sam flew out to retrieve it from the investigation board. It was totally against regulations, but they came back with it all the same,” Barnes whispered.

  The other two metal sheets were anonymous as to their origin but more important to her. One had names stencilled on it with dates.

  Her eye scanned down the list; she knew every name. All were heroes; some were closer to her than others.

  VMM-655 “Cydonian Knights”

  Fallen Heroes

  3 Squadron

  Georgina Peterson “Sundown”

  Gillian Carter “Blood Monkey”

  Steven Smith “Link”

  Mehmet Mansur “Shade”

  Adele Johnson “Joker”

  Antonio De Souza “Nightmare”

  Bruce Peroni “Phantom”

  A solitary tear traced a salty trail down her cheek as she remembered their faces. In her memory they would never grow old.

  Tish touched her arm. She pointed to the board alongside the memorial. This one was headed “Glory Lane” and showed names and numbers printed on magnetic plates.

  Mira Thorn “Mouse” 202

  Lisbeth Hansen “Valkyrie” 198

  David Samson “Dark Side” 194

  She blinked. “It’s wrong. It should be 201.”

  “I changed it; your last flight counts as a landing. You may not have walked away, but you are still here,” Barnes said.

  “I thought Valkyrie would have caught me. She was a damn good pilot, probably the best of all of us,” Mira said, her gaze never faltering from the wall.

  “She quit, handed in her wings the day after you went down. Last I heard she was working in comms on Luna. I don’t know what
happened to her after her commission lapsed. That makes you the best, like it or not.”

  Hansen was a cocky fleet-brat, overconfident and dangerous. Mira always saw her as competition. When she arrived on base six months after Mira she stood in the mess and proclaimed she would take the crown for the most missions flown. It had been an uneasy working relationship, fractious and tense; Mira had respect for Valkyrie and figured it must have been mutual.

  We were just too similar to be friends. I see that now.

  Zoe Sinclair coughed politely. “Admiral, if I may?”

  It took a moment to register.

  “Sorry, Zoe, I’m not used to the title. Call me Mira.”

  “It’s not protocol, Ma’am.”

  Mira wiped her cheek dry.

  “Fuck protocol. Come on show us the way and tell us where we are sitting. I’m sorry… it’s emotional.”

  Mira turned from the wall and walked away. Little had changed since she left Mars; every cracked tile, every light fitting and every battered locker was a ghost from her past, a memory of the best and the worst of times. It could have been yesterday, except the base was lifeless and deserted. During the war these corridors had buzzed with life, front-line crews rotating on and off deployment. There had been three Cobra squadrons garrisoned here and a Navy fighter wing would often use the strip for suborbital operations.

  She let Zoe lead the way. The woman had a pleasant, professional manner. She briefed Mira on the timing of the event and the seating provisions.

  “I have an air car waiting. We will use a portal in the top of the dome. It is sealed with a double ion curtain. I recommend you turn off all non-isolated devices, datapads and so on.” Zoe led them to a door to the main courtyard, the quad as it had been known during Mira’s tenure.

  A short air car ride took them into the city. Mira shivered as they passed through the energy curtain; it felt as if every atom in her being was buzzing. Zoe handed each of them a program printed on stiff card with gold embossed lettering.

  “I’m afraid I cannot seat you in the stadium, Sergeant Barnes,” she said.