The Last Campaign (The Near-Earth Mysteries)

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “Yes, tied,” Anthony said. “We can’t touch Flagg. We’re going to have to turn him over to Hogan. We can’t take too long at it either. He frowns on that.”

  I sighed. “All right. But, at least that bastard’s out of my squad.” Then I remembered the other officers in the room. I turned to them. “Vile, Monè, I apologize for what I just put you through.”

  “It’s all right, ma’am,” Vile said. Monè nodded.

  “No.” I shook my head. “It was necessary, but it was not all right. I was sure you were being framed; but I was equally sure that if I let anyone know that, the person behind it would be impossible to catch. By acting like I had a case against you, I fooled Flagg so he would hang around to see how it played out. I had to use you, and I am sorry for that.”

  Vile relaxed a bit in her seat. “It is all right, ma’am,” Monè said.

  I shook my head again. “I do not buy it. I saw your faces as the accusations mounted. You were angry, right?” They sat in silence. “Right?”

  As I persisted, I saw the color returning to Vile’s cheeks. “Yes,” she said at last.

  “Angry because you were innocent?”

  Monè answered, “Angry because I couldn’t prove the truth!”

  I heard Nick chuckle softly behind me, but I kept my focus on Vile and Monè. “So which is it? Is it about you, or about the truth?”

  “Both!” Vile said.

  “Good!” That puzzled them. “Vile, Monè, I think Flagg picked you two because he thought you would be easy marks. Of all my squad, you are the most cooperative. The most pliant. You go along with things.”

  “I’m trying to be a good officer, ma’am,” Vile said.

  “A good team member,” Monè answered.

  “Good for you both; but you cannot let anyone steamroll you just because you are trying to be cooperative.” I tilted my head back over my shoulder. “Vile, you let Mr. Aames bully you at the fire investigation site until you had to call for backup.”

  “He’s . . . insistent, ma’am.”

  I managed to keep from smiling. “He is that, Lieutenant.” I turned to Alonzo. “Please record commendations for Vile and Monè on this date.” Then I turned to Anthony. “Any objections?”

  “None, ma’am. I trust your judgment.”

  I turned back to the lieutenants. “And I trust yours; but can I trust you to stand up for it? Not question yourself just because somebody with authority or just bullheadedness pushes back?”

  Slowly Vile nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She paused, then added, “I’ll . . . work on that.”

  “We will,” Monè confirmed.

  I turned back to Anthony. “So we have commendations to announce. Do you think that will counter any rumors that Flagg may have spread about them?”

  Anthony looked at Alonzo. “Don’t ask me, ask Alonzo. He’s the PR expert. I’m just a policy guy, a glorified Mars explorer.”

  I turned to Alonzo.

  “I’m already handling it, ma’am,” he said. “I think it will all go over fine. It’s going to be a mess no matter what we do, and we can be sure that Grace will use this to her advantage in her ads. Nothing we can do about that. But I think Vile and Monè will come out looking pretty good.”

  I could have foisted my next responsibility off onto one of my subordinates. I was not looking forward to the visit to Fort Hudson, but it had to be done. Someone had to effect prisoner transfer to the Initiative command; and after what I had just been through, I was reluctant to trust anyone with the job but myself.

  It hurt that the team I thought I had been building into a good, reliable squad had harbored a traitor. It happens, but I thought I had known better. This was not my first command.

  And if I was unsure who I could trust, then I needed to see to Flagg’s delivery personally. I took DeHaven as an escort—it would not do to use Vile or Monè, no sense in putting them in a position of responsibility for the man who tried to frame them—and we set out to Charlie Tube and the slidewalk to Port Shannon.

  Traffic was light that morning. Much of Maxwell City’s population was at work at that hour. DeHaven did a good job of breaking traffic for us as I pushed Flagg ahead and onto the slidewalk.

  Flagg was silent but cooperative. He must have decided that Initiative authority would be more tractable. But I had him cuffed anyway. I was taking no chances.

  We passed the off-slide for two residential districts, and then one for a light industrial district. Next was the outer ring, including drop tubes for the Services level.

  After that came the long slidewalk out to the port. Traffic was even lighter there. When there were no ships in, there was not a lot of commuting to and from the port. And there had been no ships in port for almost a week.

  The slide stopped at the port, and we stepped off. Flagg stumbled—accidentally, I think, though I could not be sure—but I caught him before he fell. “Watch your step, Flagg,” I said.

  He grunted back at me, and we marched him up to the Customs area. Beyond that lay Port Shannon Lopez, named for the first crewmember lost on Nick’s mission that had founded the city. The port was a neutral zone, jointly administered by Maxwell City and the Initiative. That was something of a legal fiction, unless the Libertists got their way, as Maxwell City was ultimately under Initiative control; but we had enough autonomous rule and separate departments to require a small bureaucracy just to manage joint operations between us and the Initiative. And Customs was part of that bureaucracy, the demarcation between joint control and local control.

  DeHaven and I marched Flagg up to a kiosk where a guard waited to check credentials. She looked bored, almost half-asleep with so little traffic coming through. Her skin was nearly as dark as her black Admiralty uniform, and she wore her hair in short, tight curls. Her expression was bland as she looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “I am Police Chief Rosalia Morais,” I answered. “We are supposed to effect prisoner transfer for Jordan Flagg of Bettendorf, Iowa.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said. There was just a slight emphasis on my title. Was she mocking it? It would not surprise me. I had been on both sides of this desk, long before she had been stationed here, no doubt. Back when I had been an admiral in charge of orbital traffic for all of Mars, many in the Admiralty had expressed open contempt for the idea of Martian independence; and I had seen that contaminate the forces under them. I had done my best to curtail that simply for practical reasons: contempt breeds resentment, and resentment breeds trouble. If anything, Admiralty attitudes were pushing more people into the Libertist camp as a very predictable reaction. It also made joint operations, such as Customs, much trickier because no one was inclined to cooperate with someone they resented.

  But I responded as I had back then: with professionalism, even congeniality—until someone took advantage of it. “Thank you, Spacer,” I said. “So do we take him through?”

  She shook her head. “My instructions are that you are to wait in the anteroom”—she pointed to a door at the side of the tunnel—“until Chief Hogan arrives to take custody of the prisoner.”

  That was unacceptable, but it was not the spacer’s fault. I would have to take that up with Hogan—exactly the confrontation I would have rather avoided.

  The anteroom door slid open at our approach, and DeHaven stepped in, scanning the area. Then he looked back at me. Like myself, DeHaven was formerly with the Initiative, working in security. That was another reason I had chosen him for this assignment: I knew he could handle trouble if Flagg gave us any. DeHaven gave a thumbs-up. “All clear, ma’am.” He stepped inside, and I nudged Flagg through the door.

  As the door slid shut behind us, I heard a solid click. We were secure inside. Since this was still the Maxwell City side of Customs, this should be under our jurisdiction, and my police chief’s credentials should work on the door. I thought of testing it but decided not to make an issue. No sense ruffling Hogan’s feathers any further.

  The room was sparse, with an empty d
esk, two chairs in front of it, one behind. Without waiting for instruction, Flagg flopped himself down in the left chair. I remained standing, as did DeHaven.

  Our wait was only a few seconds before the door clicked again, sliding open and letting Chief Hogan enter. With four of us plus the desk and chairs, the room was pretty crowded, so I squeezed aside to let him in. I noted approvingly that DeHaven did as well, while keeping Flagg always in sight.

  “Excuse me,” Chief Hogan said as he snuck behind the desk. Then he turned back to us, holding out his hand. “Ms. Morais.”

  There was a slight sardonic tone in his voice. You would have to know him to pick up on it, but I did. Ignoring it, I shook his hand. “Good afternoon, Chief Hogan. We are here for the prisoner transfer. There seems to be some problem?”

  Hogan shook his head, and he looked at Flagg. “No problem, ma’am, just procedure. Prisoner, stand up.”

  Flagg stood, staring from me to Hogan and back again.

  Hogan tapped a button on his comm, and the record light came on. “I need your statement for the record, please.”

  Flagg kept his face neutral. “My name is Jordan Flagg, and I am a citizen of Bettendorf, Iowa. I demand that my case be processed by a representative of my government.”

  Hogan leaned forward to speak clearly into his comm. “I am Chief Ralph Hogan, commander of Fort Hudson, speaking on behalf of the System Initiative in representation of the United States of America and the city of Bettendorf, Iowa. I have confirmed Jordan Flagg’s citizenship claim, and I am taking him into custody from Police Chief Rosalia Morais of Maxwell City.” Then he glanced at me.

  I spoke up for the comm. “I am Police Chief Rosalia Morais of Maxwell City, and I am formally transferring Jordan Flagg to your custody. Charges and details have already been transferred to your system.”

  Hogan spoke again. “I accept your transfer of the prisoner, and I acknowledge receipt of the necessary paperwork regarding all charges against this man and his surrender of all claims territorial, property, and intellectual in the project known as Maxwell City, Mars. All of the paperwork appears to be in order, so we accept custody of the prisoner.” He tapped off the recorder and pressed the signal button. “This is Chief Hogan. You can take the prisoner now.”

  The door clicked again and slid open, and a large, armored Rapid Response Team trooper stepped in. Another stood behind him, but the anteroom had no more cubic, especially for another one that big. Hogan nodded at Flagg, and the trooper in the room took Flagg’s arm and tugged him toward the door. Flagg did not resist.

  The door remained open after the troopers left, and I started toward it; but Hogan cleared his throat. “Ma’am, a word if I may?”

  DeHaven looked at me, a question on his face; but I shook my head. “You can go back to your duties, DeHaven.” Then I thought I should add something. “Good work today.” This whole affair was going to play hell with department morale, so I would have to start reinforcing it.

  This time when the door slid shut, there was no security click. Hogan sat behind the desk. “Have a seat, Police Chief.”

  I slid lightly into the nearest chair. “You do not have to say ‘chief’ like it is an insult.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It is an insult, Rosie. You were an admiral. Second-in-command of all of Mars. Now you’re just a . . . a rent-a-cop for a bunch of Downies.”

  I shook my head. “The term is ‘Martians,’” I said firmly. “I taught you better than that. Show some respect.”

  “Respect? For what? For this bunch of tunnel rats?”

  “They are settlers. Scientists and engineers. Explorers.”

  He shook his head. “Explorers! Damn few of them. The real explorers are out on the surface, mapping and measuring and sampling. This place is just a hick town in space, just like any other hick town near a spaceport. You—They came all the way out here just to be Downies. They could’ve stayed home for that.”

  I sighed. His was a common attitude. I had shared it myself, back when I had been in charge of traffic. I had kept it quiet better than he did, but I had shared it.

  But I had not understood then, and he wouldn’t either. You had to live on Mars, with a real commitment to make it your new home, before you really got the mindset of Maxwell City. As an assignment, it was pretty pathetic, like the worst downside duty; but as a life, it mattered to me. “We are building something here.”

  He sat back. “And that’s enough for you?”

  I glanced down at the badge on my chest. “More than enough. This is not some experiment. This is a home. A new home for humanity.”

  He snickered. “You sound like a Libertist.”

  I smiled. “I have to be. I have nowhere else to go.”

  At that, his eyes turned down. “Thanks to that bastard Aames.”

  I glared. “That bastard is my husband, Chief. And a better spacer than you will ever be.”

  His eyes grew wide, and I could see he knew he had gone too far. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  I knew he was not sorry. Nick had made a lot of enemies in the Initiative. A few friends had let me know privately that they thought Nick had done the right thing, and that Aldrin City was working out well for Earth, Mars, and the investors. But most of them followed the party line: Nick was persona non grata; and because I had chosen to back him up, I was a pariah as well.

  But in this new role, I was going to have to deal with the Initiative again, with Hogan. So, it was time to build some bridges. “I accept your apology.” Then I added with a smile, “So is that why you kept me here? To talk old times? To talk dirt about the dirt diggers?”

  “No. I wanted a chance to talk to you privately. Personal matters.” Then he reached down and turned off his comm.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Personal?”

  “Yes.”

  I turned off my comm as well. Then in a lower voice I asked, “Is this room secure?”

  He smiled. “That’s why I wanted to do the transfer here, Rosie. I can’t talk on the other side of Customs, too many listening places. I needed to talk to you, as a friend.”

  “Are we still friends?”

  “Yes, damn it! I’ll never understand what you did, but I’m still your friend. Officially, I have to keep things formal. But off the record”—he glanced at his comm—“I don’t want you blindsided.”

  “By?”

  “By some people very high up who are taking an interest in this election of yours.”

  “High up in the Initiative?”

  He nodded. “And not just them. There’s money behind it too. There’s a real push to make sure your Realists prevail.”

  “I thought you agreed with the Realists?”

  “I agree with fair elections, following the polls, and letting events take their course. I think the Realists are right, you all are not ready for independence; but that’s got to be your decision. I don’t get a say in it, and neither should anyone else off-world. There’s a process for this, and there shouldn’t be interference.”

  “But there is.”

  “But there is. I wish I had details for you, but I’m still tracking them down myself. I just wanted to let you know there are a lot of things going on behind the scenes, and you need to watch your back.”

  15. TABLE OF ORGANIZATION

  By the time I was done with Hogan, the biweekly transport had reached orbit, and Port Shannon was coming alive with workers. A steady stream of people passed through the express security lane, where port credentials cleared them for the scanners as fast as they could go through. A longer, slower line passed through the Customs station. Scans there were mostly perfunctory, identification and DNA checks. These were not port workers, but they were merchants and agents and brokers who knew the routine. Sprinkled among them were just enough tourists and researchers to gum up the works with their confusion about the routine.

  The transports carried high-ticket luxury goods and VIP passengers, people and goods that just could not wait for the slow but economical t
ransport of Aldrin City and the Collins. These fusion-powered rockets cost nearly twenty times more per kilo delivered than the Aldrin did, even after you factored in the lower life-support costs due to the shorter trips. So these were the mainstay of the port economy, the goods and people with money to burn; and our people were there, ready to take that money. If anything ever interfered with this commerce, Maxwell City would not be viable, not at its current size.

  That was a strong argument on the Realist side: that Maxwell City, that all of Mars was not yet self-sustaining. But it was more complicated than that. Manhattan on Earth could not feed itself, nor could São Paulo, Moscow, or London. But they could do enough commerce to keep the food coming. Aldrin City had already proved net self-sufficiency and had been granted independence. The Libertists argued that our research and tourism economy was solid, dependable, able to sustain Mars into the future as we slowly built up our own agricultural capabilities. They had the charts and graphs to back them up; but did they have the confidence of the people?

  I weaved my way through the lines and to the slidewalk back to the city proper. The slide was full of tourists and researchers, plus a few local merchants. The latter moved at two speeds: slow and dejected, or fast and triumphant. Micro fortunes were made every day at Port Shannon. And more were lost.

  With a practiced eye, I could tell tourists from researchers more often than not. Researchers were here for longer stays. Whether corporate, government, or academic, the cost to bring them out here was high; so no one sent them for short journeys. And it could be a career killer to waste the trip, to become injured or ill or manic and have to go home early. So as a group the researchers took their conditioning more seriously: they took their nanotherapy to stave off bone loss and radiation risks, yes; but they also followed the strict training regimen to prepare themselves for the local gravity. They were the ones who walked the slide almost with the ease of locals. But not the tourists. A few of them could fool me, the eager would-be explorers who took everything seriously. But the rest, the ones for whom a trip to Mars was a lark, were finding that Martian gravity was more of a challenge than they expected. They overcorrected, taking very small steps, or they undercorrected and bounced. After a few mishaps, you would find them clinging to the safety rail on the slide. There were always a few injuries as people learned safety lessons the hard way.