by R L Dean
Shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket Eric followed the same path as Emilia did.
South Tunnel's 'commercial district' consisted of three blocks of thirty year old permafab buildings. Most were empty, a couple were inhabited by small gangs that had cropped up over the years. One spray painted FMN on the door, using the banner of the righteous work of resisting the UN as an excuse for their petty crimes.
The only thing that survived here were bars. They were havens for the sad, the lonely, and the discontent. But rarely the industrious. When the movement began picking up speed Eric had thought of the bars as possible recruitment locations, instead what he found was a lot of loud drunks that just wanted to forget their lives rather than cross the river of change and commit to something greater.
Turning the corner at the next block he walked beside a small park. Martian dust coated the lawn, the sidewalks, and the benches, giving everything a tinge of red that turned dark orange in the burrow's evening light. Burrow Maintenance was responsible for the park's upkeep but between a limited staff, more important matters, and the constantly overworked air filters the park was destined to remain red-orange. And brown, when the grass died in spots.
His apartment building came into view, just as orange and dirty as the park. It wasn't the same one that he and his mother lived in their first time in South Tunnel, but it looked the same. Smelled, the same.
It was early in his last year of college when the embargo of raw ore went back into effect and prices for goods started climbing. He didn't understand at first. He didn't know anyone personally that was wealthy, but he knew people that were solidly middle class. Certainly not poor like he and his mom had been after his father had killed himself. Eric watched as his mother, and their neighbors, lose their jobs. The basic stipend was cut. It was starting again, a recession. He remembered the cold knot deep in his belly those years ago when he had realized what was happening.
Public opinion was fickle. One day people shouted that DNA from the last surviving seals should be taken and used to create clones and revitalize the species. Other days they lamented the fact that laws protecting the last rainforests were stopping the growth of businesses. A fad. That's what interest in Mars was, a passing fancy that would soon be replaced. Like fashion traveling across Earth from Greater Hollywood and Paris.
And the UN Council and Secretary-General Modi knew it.
They gave the colony what it needed to pacify public outcry, and then simply waited. All the while lauding the colony's growth toward self-sufficiency. And when the fad changed, so did they. All of the things that kept Martians in their place, kept them beggared, returned.
So he started a group on campus to discuss the issues, now he led a terrorist cell.
Eric took a heavy breath as he reached the door to the apartment. Why did it seem so long ago? Those meetings, the protests, hours of legal research ... debates. He graduated a month before the grants were cut, but continued to meet with the group that he started. Did things with them ... vandalized some Earth businesses. Hacked a few bank accounts and bled big shot company reps dry. Things like that. Then William Jung entered the picture and here he was.
The dingy yellow light in the ceiling flickered on as he entered the one room apartment. Blankets were strewn on the couch and a half empty plastic bottle of dark liquor sat on the coffee table. His mother would have just left for work. Eric folded the blanket on the couch where she slept. Then he cleaned the room's air filter, dumping a layer of red dust into the disposal and rinsing the filter in the sink.
He sat down in the only other chair in the room and ... well ... just sat there and listened. Through the thin walls he heard the old man that lived in the apartment next door moving around. Then some people passing by outside— they were young and loud.
Things went suddenly quiet ... but then Emilia's feet pounded overhead in the upstairs apartment and he heard her high-pitched voice. Her mother said something back and then it went quiet again.
Sometimes Eric didn't think he did enough. Sometimes he thought he should try to locate other cells and make something bigger. They were past the point that lifting the embargo on raw ore or establishing a free market would make a difference. Besides, Modi and his gang of UN thieves couldn't be trusted. They could just shut it all down, again, like they did before.
Eric leaned forward in the chair. What would it take to unite the cells? Would there be enough people to take the UNSEC headquarters in Capital Burrow?
24 - Compton
United Nations Security Command— the Mars branch— was in the heart of Capital Burrow, a few blocks from the Governor's office. It was a low, modern structure of steel and concrete with more curves and less corners than the neighboring buildings. There was even a small fountain out front that gave the place a ... friendly ... Compton guessed was the word, appearance. His office was on the other side of the building but the large screen on the wall behind his desk simulated the outside and he often pointed the camera toward the fountain. He liked to look at it while he was thinking ... watch the people pass by on the sidewalk. A silent montage of activity.
The view would have been better with pigeons or ducks.
Compton frowned at the fountain and swiveled his chair back around to face his desk. His terminal screen still showed General W. Hague's 'written' response to his request for more soldiers, a dedicated team of experts, support staff, and firepower— specifically power-armor— to help combat what Compton thought was the obvious growing threat of Free Mars Now. As the Commander of External Territories, Hague was as far up the food chain as he could go.
He folded his arms and stared at the screen. It was the first artistic no that he had ever seen from Hague, a man who by virtue of his job was given to directness. Yes and no were orders, never subject to interpretation. Compton hadn't even been aware that the man was capable of such ... corporate wordsmithing. But even so, that was not what drew his attention. It was to the personal note at the end of the formal response that his eyes were drawn.
Wil, things are heating up out-system. I know that with everything that's happening in your own backyard you may not be keeping up with the news. There have been multiple pirate attacks on haulers crossing the Belt and miners further out. So far, patrols haven't been able to catch a single one. Modi and the Council are getting it from all sides. Looks like they're going to fire up the shipyards at Archimedes. If they do, between crewing those new ships and policing the crap that's happening on the Moon we'll be facing a manpower shortage. If you want to send Marietta back here, I'll foot the bill. Let me know.
Marietta was going back to Earth until his tour here was over. That decision was already made.
Now these pirates ... not a single one captured. Just like the FMN terrorists. The question in Compton's mind was how. How were the two parties— who may, or may not, be connected— both able to evade capture? And the answer was simple enough. They had intel, access to inside information that allowed them to evade targets, pick targets, and disappear.
So, where were they getting their intel?
His sergeant, and a dozen soldiers under her, would accuse the Governor. It made sense to her, but he wasn't ready to buy into that theory. Shultz just seemed like any other politician to him. Maybe he had secrets, maybe he was hiding things from his wife and family. Compton could even imagine the man doing some quasi-legal financial gymnastics on the side ... but the leader of a terrorist organization?
Then enlightenment dawned on him and his eyebrows rose. What if JJ were half right?
He slapped the terminal's comm and said, "JJ."
"Yes sir," came the immediate response.
"Are you here?"
"Yes, sir. In the mess."
"Get the car, and meet me out back."
On his way out he told the first lieutenant that functioned as his administrative assistant to call the Governor's office and tell them he was on his way. He was already out the door before it occurred to him that Shult
z might not even be there.
* * *
He supposed he should have walked the few short blocks to the building that housed the Governor's office, it might have sapped some of the adrenaline out of his system. Now, as he sat in the waiting room, that pent-up nervous energy wanted to come out as a knee bounce. It made him feel like a twelve year old with RLS. In the military— officer or enlisted— one experienced a whole lot of waiting. The bureaucratic heavy organization wasn't known for rushing things. But this was ridiculous. Shultz was in his office, in conference. So Compton had to wait. A civilian Governor still 'out ranked' a UNSEC Lieutenant Colonel.
JJ was at one end of the room with her arms folded over her chest, alternately pacing three steps, then frowning at the young woman at the desk beside the office door. Compton thought it was a good thing that no one else was waiting to see Shultz. After twenty minutes, just when he was beginning to suspect he was being made to 'cool his heels' the woman stood from her desk and smiled politely, saying, "He's ready for you, sir."
Compton grunted his thanks and stood.
In his office Shultz was standing at his desk, moving things around, and William Jung, the reticent Lieutenant Governor, was sitting in one of the chairs around the coffee table in the center of the room.. Where Jung merely looked up and nodded in his direction, Shultz smiled— a politician's smile— and came around the desk with his hand out.
"Colonel," the governor said. "It's always a pleasure to see you."
He shook Shultz's hand.
"Thank you, sir."
Shultz shifted his smile and hand to JJ. Compton had thought about leaving her in the waiting room, but she would just scare people. As she shook Shultz's hand she did a good job of masking her distrust and suspicions about the man with a professional military demeanor.
"Good morning, sir."
"Please, have a seat. Coffee, or something stronger?"
Compton went through the motions of pleasantries. For Shultz he was sure it was a dance, for him it was a shuffle.
"Sir, what I wanted to see you about," he said, after the first sip of his coffee. "I think I know how the terrorists are picking their targets."
Shultz shifted in his seat, glanced at Jung— whose right eyebrow twitched.
"Oh," Shultz said. "Well that's good news."
"You are aware of what's going on out-system?"
"Peripherally," Shultz admitted. "Some pirate attacks? The burrows are really our gemba."
Nodding, Compton continued. "The pirates have something in common with the Free Mars Now terrorists. They've both been able to evade capture. We don't have a single terrorist prisoner or ..."
"I would say that's on you, Colonel," Jung suddenly said, his voice level and accusing.
There was a moment of silence while Compton considered his reply. JJ was standing near the door. Her normal stance on occasions such as this was somewhere between a parade rest and at attention— as if she wasn't sure which posture she was supposed to adopt in these sort of situations. He could feel her frown from where he sat on the couch.
Shultz gave a tight smile and glanced again at Jung. "Ah, Bill, let's give the Colonel a chance to explain."
Jung's expression didn't change, he simply took a sip of his coffee.
"I think the pirates out-system and our terrorists are getting their information from one source," Compton said. "I think they've cracked one or more government comm channels."
Shultz blinked. "Hacked our comms? Well, that would explain a lot."
"It would," Compton agreed. "Inbound cargo ships must report their freight to the Department of Commerce, as well as the freight's final destination." He paused for a moment, what he had to say next was almost as much as an accusation as JJ had made against Shultz.
"I see where this is going," Shultz connected the obvious dots before Compton continued. "That same information, as well as military flight plans, makes its way to our communication feeds ... here, my office specifically."
Compton gave a slight smile and nodded once.
"Hmm." Shultz sat back in his seat. "So, you think the rumors are true, that the pirates are actually FMN terrorists?"
He shrugged. "If my theory is correct, it would make sense."
"For a theory you seem sure," Jung said.
"It's the least complicated answer."
Shultz nodded. "I agree, Colonel. The obvious answer is usually the correct one. So, what do we do? I don't think you would come to me without a plan."
"No, sir, I would not," he replied. "I propose we set a trap."
"A trap?" Jung repeated, the corners of his mouth turned ever so slightly down.
"Yes, sir. The fact is I don't have the specialists to perform a deep audit of the communication systems. What I do have is over a hundred infantrymen and an odd three-dozen field combat soldiers. So, I say we bait the terrorists with a target that's too hard to pass up. Test my theory that the government comm channels are compromised. And, if they are, we'll be waiting for them."
Shultz and Jung stared at him. The Governor seemed to mull it over. Jung's eyebrow twitched again and he set his empty coffee cup on the table then leaned back in his chair.
Finally Shultz spoke up. "Sounds dangerous, Colonel. But, what exactly did you have in mind?"
Compton laid out the details of his plan. After twenty minutes of back and forth questions and answers he and JJ were walking out of the front doors of the building, with Shultz's word that he and Jung would consider his plan.
"They'll never agree to this," JJ told him as she opened the door to the car for him. "It could expose them. We capture one of the terrorists and interrogate them ... their names come up. Too risky for them."
"Have a little faith," he told her. "The governor and lieutenant governor are not involved in passing intel to terrorists. Their comms have been hacked."
He felt justified when just a few minutes later as he walked past his assistant's desk to go to his office she told him the governor was on the line waiting for him. When he sat down behind his own desk and took the call, Shultz said go ahead.
25 - Misaki
Off the starboard quarter Jupiter was a fuzzy tan and white tennis ball. Butte was somewhere below it, a spec of light washed out by the Sadie's drive tail. Misaki turned back to the commlink antenna actuator. A warning light had been flashing on the main engineering terminal on the day she stopped taking the drug and started working with Haydon around the ship. It was low priority because the small hatch it controlled to cover and release the antenna still functioned. In this case it was just a matter of replacing a fuse that was reaching the end of its manufactured lifespan, but if she had the parts she would replace the whole actuator. It was on the parts list that she left Mat and Haydon when she departed the ship at Butte. But while there Mat sensed that things were heating up because of the increasing pirate attacks and the refusal of the hauler crews to leave the station until the UN Security patrol arrived, and the parts list was pared down to necessities for a quicker departure from the station.
Misaki had not expected to return aboard the Sadie, or in fact to ever see Mat and the crew again, and while she could not say that finding herself here once again was an unwelcome turn of events, there were some dangers. No, not dangers, but things to navigate. Mat was the kindest man she met, before or after her experience aboard the pirate tug. And while she understood perfectly what she felt for him, she could not afford to become involved. She was going back home. Mat continued to be his normal nice, concerned, unsure self, and had not pressed the issue of his feelings or tried to define their relationship. And for that she appreciated him all the more. No one else she knew would have allowed her to illegally hack the ship's manifest or change a legal incident report for her, and a part of Misaki felt bad about having to do it. So, she locked that part away in the back of her mind and did engineering work as a means of atonement. When she finally did leave— and she would when they reached the Moon— the Sadie would be the best she coul
d make it.
She changed the fuse out, ran a diagnostic on the whole circuit, then called Haydon.
"Yes, mam?" He asked, his face appearing on her HUD. Mat may have called her the temporary Chief of Engineering but she had no official position aboard the ship, yet that didn't stop Haydon from calling her mam. In Misaki's mind it had the ring of permanency that just wasn't true.
"Activate the forward section antenna," she said.
The hatch raised and the three meter antenna extended out. It looked good. She had Haydon close and reopen it a couple of times before she headed across the hull to stare down at the rusting seam between two plates that she spotted on her walk to the comm antenna. The rust was under a thin glaze of ice. It was possible the ship picked it up in Saturn's atmosphere, where Mat had them mining when the tug attacked, but she doubted it. It was more likely a leak coming from the space between the inner and outer hull plates. Some of the tubing running through the Sadie was so outdated that it was no longer made. Whatever was leaking would have to be sealed and the microscopic space between the plates cleaned and resealed.
She turned to continue her walk back to the maintenance hatch but stopped when she caught a glimmer of light— a sparkle— just at the edge of her helmet's face shield. It was a camp of Jupiter's trojans, and given the Sadie's course they would be the Greeks. She looked at them fully, pressing buttons on her wrist to make her HUD magnify them. They were a long way off, but some of them with high albedos could be seen across the big black for tens of millions of klicks. To Misaki they looked like a string of lanterns in the night. It brought back memories of Osaka dome's annual Lantern Festival. Each year in the dome's center more than five thousand would gather to put a tiny light in plastic skinned lanterns and fill them with helium, then let them loose. Her mother wasn't superstitious and didn't prescribe to the old Japanese belief that the lanterns warded off demons, she just thought they were pretty. So they went each year.
Misaki smiled to herself. Dome Maintenance hated the festival. They would spend the next week picking up lanterns from the streets when they ran out of helium and fell or using cranes and drones to pull them down from the dome's ceiling.