Shadow Strike

by P. R. Adams

  “Been a little busy coordinating the hunt for this invisible fleet of yours.”

  “There’s plenty of debris up in the sky, sir.”

  “That there is. Not enough to account for what happened to the Home Defense Fleet. That message needs to be clear.”

  “I’ll give the changes a look, General.”

  “Stick to the script.”

  The admiral nodded over her shoulder.

  No misreading that. Benson pulled the tablet out. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Grier hurried closer to Benson. “What about Lieutenant Stiles, ma’am?”

  Benson shook her head. They’d have to worry about the GSA officer later.

  McLeod took them through an unfamiliar entry, something apparently reserved for support staff and the like. After a hall lined with images of all the prime ministers who had come before, they passed the image of the current prime minister, then through a door, which opened onto a hallway. Blue carpet, dark-paneled walls—Benson recognized where they were now. Aides and staffers looked up from their own tablets, faces turning sour at the sight of the uniforms.

  Decades of budget battles during peacetime had made the military unpopular with many politicians. Testimony to explain the threat facing the Republic wasn’t going to be welcome.

  But it was coming.

  At the end of the hall, McLeod opened one of the large, darkly stained doors and waved them through to a crowded gallery where seats were arrayed in rows around a gentle arc. They passed down an aisle, and the colonel pointed to a couple empty seats for Grier and Halliwell, then took a seat one row in front of them.

  The general and admiral accompanied Benson to a heavy table that had three chairs, glasses, and a water pitcher. Like the chairs, the table matched the dark stain of the outer doors. Blue carpet had been replaced by a smoky gray marble. The table occupied the approximate center of an auditorium-like area with a semicircle of seats raised in two tiers. On top were the hundred seats of the Upper Chamber; below were the three hundred of the Lower Chamber.

  Seated in the center of the Upper Chamber was the prime minister.

  Or she would be, once she arrived.

  Members of both chambers were still taking their seats, chatting noisily. They wore business suits and dresses, and over those, the sleeveless robes of office—gray for the Lower Chamber, blue for the Upper, and purple for the prime minister.

  Someone struck a gavel, and the chatter died as the ministers headed for their seats more earnestly.

  The gavel struck again, and everyone rose as Prime Minister Igarashi entered through a door at the back of the raised area. The woman was older than Benson remembered, with white hair and stooped shoulders. Her skin was like hard-worked brass, aged by years in the sun. Benson remembered the woman as a rival, someone Sargota had battled with many times. But there was respect between the two women, which meant something. Not many seemed to respect Benson’s mother after a few run-ins.

  Benson scanned the gathered politicians quickly, caught the disappointed look of her mother’s brown eyes. Like the prime minister, the woman seemed shrunken and her golden skin more wrinkled than made sense. Her hair was nearly as white, but there was the familiar rigidly straight back.

  The prime minister rapped her gavel against its block. “This special session of the parliament will come to order. Commander Faith Benson, I believe you have something to read into the record?”

  A tap brought the command tablet screen to life. The speech was there, glowing. Changed. It had already been registered for the record. Modifying it in any way would be unacceptable.

  Just read it as-is.

  Benson struggled to keep her voice calm as she read out the prepared text. There were minor changes, the sort of thing staff officers would do to “punch it up.” And then there were wholesale changes, also made by staff officers, but at the guidance of the senior commanders.

  Rather than outright lies, things were…enhanced or diminished. Captain Finkel hadn’t ignored warnings and failed to veer off but had sought to assess the situation to provide much-needed guidance in the absence of an experienced flag officer.

  But the core remained: By all accounts, the Azoren Federation had launched an unprovoked sneak attack against the Kedraalian Republic that matched the scale and cowardice of the attack launched more than fifty years prior to start the War of Separation.

  When Benson was done, she clasped her hands in front of her and looked into the sea of faces of the Republic’s elected officials.

  Do they know what truly happened? Do they understand the implications?

  Whispers. The politicians leaned toward each other, mouths covered, nodding.

  Finally, the prime minister rapped the gavel down again. “Thank you, Commander Benson. As always, we value the input of our military experts.”

  Benson’s stomach knotted. “Thank you, Madam Prime Minister.”

  “You indicate in your document that your arrival into Kedraal space wasn’t previously planned.”

  “It wasn’t, Madam Prime Minister.”

  “Rather fortuitous, wasn’t it?”

  The Marine general nodded slightly.

  “It was, Madam Prime Minister.”

  “Nearly as fortuitous as the ship you commanded having the capability to detect these Azoren vessels.”

  “I would say equally, Madam Prime Minister.”

  The whispers grew louder, the actions of the ministers more animated, their faces more irritated.

  The prime minister’s wrinkled face twisted into a scowl. “If you were to posit why the Azoren would have attacked, Commander—” The small woman pointed her gavel at the admiral and general. “—and this is only for the commander—what would you say was behind this?”

  Benson’s guides tensed but didn’t say anything. This was something that would have—should have—been handled through briefings and debriefings and practicing the presentation, but after submitting the speech Benson had been tasked to write, she had been left alone, isolated.

  War planning took precedence over the ridiculous show being put on now. None of the military chiefs had staff to spare for what was seen as a mere formality.

  But Benson realized she was on a tightrope.

  She squeezed her hands together. “Only the Azoren could speak to their motivations, Madam Prime Minister. What I do know, though, is that this attack has been planned for some time. The Home Defense Fleet was targeted. Your task force was targeted. If the nuclear warheads recovered from some of the debris are any indication of intent, it would seem Kedraal was a target as well.”

  Nuclear warheads could have been used to cripple the military, same as they would to destroy ships, but there had been so many warheads and those had been large.

  Had the SAID accounted for the possibility their Azoren friends might wipe everyone out?

  Benson didn’t even want to guess.

  The prime minister broke up more chatter with another strike of the gavel. “Once again, Commander Benson, we appreciate your input and that of our brave protectors. We’ll recess this special session and meet again in one hour.”

  Two strikes of the gavel, and the early session was concluded.

  Ministers rose, then quickly broke into groups. Sargota joined several others from her caucus but seemed to keep an eye on her daughter.

  The Marine general harrumphed. “Two more sessions like this.”

  The admiral winced. “You did well, Commander Benson.”

  “Thank you.” Benson glanced over her shoulder at McLeod, who was busy with a tablet. “I wasn’t actually sure what to expect.”

  “We weren’t sure, either.” After a second, the admiral seemed to relax. “You understand we’re doing damage control here.”

  “Protecting careers?”

  “I’m afraid some careers are ruined, but the Navy…”

  “Yes, ma’am. Would it change things if they found the rest of the Azoren fleet?”

  “Oh, they must be long
gone by now.”

  Benson choked back a sigh. The admiral’s attitude was exactly what had allowed the enemy to do the damage it had done. That and the SAID traitors.

  Someone bumped against the table, and Benson nearly jumped: It was her mother.

  Sargota smiled patiently at the two senior officers. “Excuse me, Admiral?”

  The admiral’s smile turned sour. “Yes, Representative Benson?”

  “Would it be too much to ask if you could spare my daughter for a few minutes?”

  The general thumped the table with a meaty finger. “We’ll need her back for the follow-up session.”

  “Oh, perhaps you didn’t notice, but I’ll need to be back, too.”

  Benson shriveled inside at the condescending smile on her mother’s thin lips. The commander stood and waved her tablet. “We shouldn’t be long. I have an alarm set.”

  The Marine turned away. “Don’t be late, Commander.”

  Sargota strolled past the table, and Benson fell in close behind, towering over the little woman. The politician’s eyes drifted over McLeod, then Grier and Halliwell, who seemed stunned.

  “Mother, what’s this about?”

  “Your testimony.”

  The elderly representative kept a good pace, leading them down the hallway, then cutting through another set of doors that took them into a wide stairwell. Their steps echoed off marble stairs until they exited into an area with more sedate, white-painted walls. Open doors revealed smaller meeting rooms on either side of a carpeted hall.

  Benson came to a stop when her mother did. “What about my testimony?”

  “Was it?” The white-haired woman seemed so much more fragile and old than Benson remembered.

  “You know how these things go. The senior staff—”

  “Provided valuable input. I’m sure. And do you believe what you said?”

  “About what?” Benson fought the urge to rub her forehead with the heel of a palm. “Things have been very hectic for me the last month or so.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Yes, you can only imagine. You never put the uniform on. You never took the oath.”

  “I took a different oath, dear. Just as important as yours. Please remember that.”

  “I respect what you do, Mother.”

  “Do you? When did that start, exactly?”

  “I’ve always respected—”

  The door to the stairwell opened, and several of Sargota’s allies floated past. A few stopped to say hello and compliment Benson on how beautiful and impressive she was. When the prime minister joined them, everyone else bowed their heads.

  Benson cleared her throat. “It’s good to see you, Madam Prime Minister.”

  “Made possible only by your efforts, Commander.” The prime minister patted Benson’s mother on the arm. “Don’t be long, Sargota. There’s much yet to be discussed.”

  Sargota nodded. “The Kilimanjaro conference room?”

  “We’ll start with procedural matters. You have five minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  The ministers hurried to one of the larger meeting rooms and quickly fell into chatter. It was exactly as Benson remembered things being inside the building. Negotiations, procedures, people who were bitter enemies squabbling one moment than shaking hands the next.

  The elderly politician took her daughter’s hand. “We’re both servants.”

  “I know. You just happen to be a servant who’s spent her entire career trying to get rid of other servants.”

  “That’s unfair, dear. I’ve been trying to bring responsibility—”

  “‘—and discipline and to peel back the drapes to reveal waste and fraud.’ I know. And every time someone meets me, I’m reminded of how your ‘responsibility and discipline’ agenda destroys careers.”

  “Are you concerned about a career or about serving your people?”

  Benson knew better than to ask what her mother’s concerns were. “I can’t reveal information that’s been classified.”

  “I see.” The older woman’s dark eyes reflected awareness and understanding. “Perhaps the prime minister could encourage a change in the classifications you’re concerned about.”

  Pain throbbed behind Benson’s eyes. “I’m only a commander in the—”

  “Everyone here is quite aware of who you are, child.” The bony little hand squeezed. “Commendations are in order.”

  “Mother—”

  “You saved who knows how many lives.”

  “The fleet did.”

  “I’ve seen the official reports, Faith.” Pride sparkled in Sargota’s eyes.

  The stairwell door opened, and Grier and Halliwell stepped into the hallway. They frowned—they’d been sent to retrieve their boss.

  Sargota sucked in a breath. “They’re quite handsome, both of them.”

  “Part of my crew from the Pandora.”

  “The search-and-rescue ship you hated so much.”

  Benson blushed. “I was—”

  Her mother waved any explanation off. “Go on. We both have our challenges to contend with.”

  Benson turned, then twisted back around, hands pressed against her thighs. “Would you be available for lunch?”

  “With you or would your Marines be in attendance?” A mischievous smile screwed up her lips. “Either would be fine, dear.”

  “We could eat in the cafeteria.”

  “It’s every bit as wonderful as it used to be.”

  “I remember the pizza being good.”

  “And it will go straight to your thighs.”

  Benson frowned.

  The elderly politician patted her daughter’s hip. “Which could use something extra. Really, you need to take care of yourself.”

  Benson bent down and hugged her mother. “Lunch.”

  Sargota patted her daughter’s back. “Don’t expect me to go easy on the questioning.”

  “Have you ever?”

  Grier’s eyes were huge when Benson approached. “I saw the prime minister—”

  “In the Kilimanjaro conference room.” The commander nodded toward the door her mother was shuffling toward. “They’re working up a set of questions—”

  Pressure knocked Benson to the floor, and her mind registered a flash of light and an explosive roar. There was another delayed bit of awareness: Fire rolled out of the open door and washed over her mother. Bits of wood and chunks of plaster and concrete rode the pressure wave.

  And there was probably more—much more.

  But it was lost in the heat and pressure and darkness that obliterated Benson’s awareness.

  17

  Sunlight was a tricky thing. Stiles had spent most of her life away from the golden glow of Kedraal. Space travel, training, and the need to keep her existence hidden from the general public—none of them leant themselves much to enjoying warmth and purity.

  “You were meant for shadow and darkness.”

  Her instructor had become attached to telling her that.

  That was exactly what had become her home since her return to her birthplace: A familiar hard bed; the musty, close quarters of a small room; the door that could only be opened from outside.

  And darkness.

  Someone had turned down the thermostat until it felt as if they were freezing her. She shivered, and goosebumps rose on her skin. There were no sheets or blankets to warm herself. Or to kill herself.

  As if she would surrender her life. That would be a betrayal of her oath.

  The people of Kedraal were being deceived. They were being manipulated by those who should have been protecting them. Their government was failing them. They had to be stopped, but she was only one person.

  Keys rattled in a lock, and the door squealed open—hollow metal but heavy. Lights as bright as a summer day blinded her, and four big, uniformed soldiers rushed into the room. They wore padding over their joints and vitals, and they held heavy, black batons. One of them clicked a switch, creating a buzz f
rom the held baton.

  Stiles wore undergarments. A single touch of one of the batons to any exposed skin would be enough to cause temporary paralysis. Even a uniform wouldn’t stop the electrical charge, but these people liked their naked skin.

  “Up.” It was the smallest of the four, a wicked-looking woman—short black hair, pale golden skin, and the sort of epicanthic folds people called sleepy eyes. Smallest was misleading, of course. Sleepy Eyes was a head taller than Stiles and probably had fifty kilos on her, mostly muscle.

  And she had a pistol on her hip. The only firearm in the bunch.

  The boss.

  Stiles dropped her feet over the edge of the bunk and sat up with some effort. “C-could I have something to wear, please? It’s cold.”

  Sleepy Eyes wagged her baton. “Up. Now.”

  It was like standing on ice, the concrete floor painted a glossy white. “The light hurts.”

  They waved her toward the door, and she hobbled out, squinting against the blinding glow. Four more waited in the hallway. Two of them looked at her in a way that said they hadn’t received enough meds. One had skin like mahogany and the smallest ears she’d ever seen; the other had the sort of heavy brow and jaw that spoke to some sort of disorder.

  A week sealed off from the world, freezing, and she could still have an effect on people when their receptors weren’t being blocked.

  The other two of the front four swatted their buddies on the shoulders, then led the entourage down a series of plain, gray, concrete corridors until they reached an equally gray anteroom with a bench, and beyond that a bathroom. Two toilets, two sinks, two drains, four showerheads. No stalls.

  Stiles knew the routine. She tossed her undergarments to the floor, used the toilet, then stood under the closest showerhead.

  Icy water pummeled her.

  She stared into space, thinking of a place where she wasn’t shivering or starving and her wounds didn’t ache. The water sputtered, then died, then pink foam dropped onto her. It was more detergent than soap, stinging her sinuses and drawing tears. There was a filmy residue after she rinsed.

  At least she felt mostly clean, but it was almost as bad as being dropped into a frozen lake.