She felt her heart sink as she studied the files. The population monitoring system watched everyone. It ran an incredibly complex series of algorithms to determine who might pose a threat to the established order, then flag them for human intervention. She doubted the system was anything like as effective as the designers claimed, given the inability to make the jump to a true AI. The majority of suspects were nothing more than grumblers, if that. And yet ... she tried not to grimace as she realised just how badly the algorithms could screw up their lives. A person who was regarded as suspect could be denied everything from promotion to travel and banking services, their lives destroyed at the push of a button. And people trusted the system. They wouldn’t bother to actually think before they hit the switch to cancel the suspect.
Rachel shook her head in disbelief, then started to compose two messages. The first one would be mailed out to everyone on the suspect list, from people who were on the verge of being cancelled to people who’d grumbled once and never again. She composed it carefully, adding warnings about the danger of reporting the message to higher authority even if one refused to join the rebellion. The supposed rebellion. There was a good chance that at least some of the suspects would think the message was a sting, but it was unlikely the message could be traced back to her. She’d been tempted to try to blame everything on Commander Archer ... she dismissed the thought before she could put it into practice. Better the message seemed to come out of nowhere. If the enemy locked down the datanet, it would hamper them more than anything else.
She sent the message, wondering how many people would reply - and how many people would report it. There was no way to know. The algorithms were so deeply flawed, and yet so pervasive, that there was a good chance that most of the suspects were nothing more than false positives. Rachel had been in the corps long enough to know that everyone grumbled, everyone. The grumbling didn’t always mean there was about to be a mutiny. But a bad reaction to grumbling tended to make it worse.
The die is cast, she thought. And now ...
She put the second message together a little more carefully. The message would go directly to each and every one of the ex-imperial personnel, reminding them of their former loyalties and offering them the chance to switch sides. She was entirely sure the security services would pick up on the message, but doing something about it wouldn’t be easy. If they treated the ex-imperial personnel with suspicion, they might trigger off a mutiny; if they removed them from positions of power, they’d hamper their war effort ... if they ignored the message, they’d give an ambitious little toad a chance to start plotting. Rachel had few illusions about the ex-imperial personnel. Some of them would have been hired for competence, but others would be hellishly ambitious. Who knew how much trouble they’d cause?
If I can keep them second-guessing themselves, she mused, it’ll make it harder for them to organise resistance.
She carefully worked her way through the system, trying to ensure the blame fell on an ex-imperial officer of uncertain competence. He’d be primed for interrogation, she was sure; he’d tell his interrogators the complete truth, yet they’d never believe him. Why would they, when he’d been prepared to handle everything from direct brain contact to old-fashioned torture? She’d been tempted to try to pin the blame on General Gilbert, but she’d resisted. He would have been thoroughly vetted before being promoted to his current position. There was too great a chance the security services would realise they were being spoofed.
Not that it matters, she thought, as she disconnected herself and drifted off to sleep. They’ll have to take the threat seriously ...
***
Harrison Clines, Assistant Vice Production Director, was not having a good day. He’d come into the office to discover a handful of his most trusted personnel had been called up for military service, creating a series of delays that would look very bad on his annual performance review. He’d been hoping to be promoted up the ladder, but that wasn’t going to happen unless he managed to fill the holes and boost production once again. He knew what he needed to do, yet ... it was impossible. He‘d spent the entire morning trying to find replacements, only to discover there were none to be had. It looked as though all the trained and experienced personnel had been recruited for the military, leaving the factory manned by button-pressers and floor-cleaners. Things would remain stable, as long as nothing broke down. He had a nasty feeling something was going to break.
He scowled as he stamped past his secretary and walked into his office. The Vice Production Director, a cast-iron bitch if ever there was one, had torn a strip off him. It hadn’t been his fault that all available spare parts had been rerouted to the military. It hadn’t been his fault that they’d received a series of rush orders from the government at the same time they’d lost the ability to handle them. But the bitch hadn’t cared. She was hoping for a seat on the Board of Directors and that wouldn’t happen if she was blamed for the problems. No ... she was passing the blame to him. Harrison had no doubt she was already putting together a paper trail that blamed everything on him, a string of lies that no one would dare question too openly. He sat down, opened his drawer and removed the bottle of wine he’d concealed there weeks ago. If there ever a situation that called for a stiff drink, it was this one ...
The terminal bleeped, indicating a priority message had arrived. Harrison gritted his teeth in frustration. He was important, damn it. His secretary should handle all such matters. No one would be sending him priority messages unless it was truly important ... unless it was his wife. He had no idea how he was going to face her, when he finally went home. She had her heart set on being a director’s wife and ... if she knew her husband wouldn’t be climbing any higher ... who knew what she’d do? Bitch and moan, probably. He silently kicked himself for marrying her. Sure, her family had connections, but not enough connections. There were younger men on the management teams who would probably jump past him, thanks to their connections. Bastards.
He let out a sigh as the terminal bleeped again. He’d better read the message before it was too late. His wife would know, somehow, if he left it untouched. And if it was an urgent governmental message ... they’d know. He stared at the walls, all too aware there were few blind spots in the office. There was no way to be sure he’d missed something, when he’d checked the room for bugs. For all he knew, one of them had been carefully hidden to lull him into a false sense of security. It was what the security bastards would do. They spent all their time trying to catch people saying things they shouldn’t ...
The message unfolded in front of him. Greetings. If you are reading this message, you are on a list of possible subversives. You are under suspicion. Be aware that receiving this message will be counted against you, even if you report it to the security services. They will not give you the benefit of the doubt. We will. This message has been wiped from the datanodes as it made its way to you. It will be wiped from your datanode shortly too. If you choose to ignore it, we will respect your choice. If you choose to report it ... you will be putting yourself in the hands of the security services. You can consider for yourself the possible consequences.
Harrison felt his heart skip a beat. What? What was ...? His thoughts ran in circles. Who’d sent the message to him? And why? Was it a trap? Was he meant to report it? Or would the mere fact of receiving the message be held against him? He didn’t know.
The message continued. We are the underground. We intend to overthrow the current order and replace it with something better, free of the corprats and their peeping Tom security services. We feel that you, a possible subversive, might be interested in joining us. If you reply to this message, we will take it as an expression of interest. If not, you will still receive messages from time to time. We ask you to consider ways you can assist us in building a better world ...
“Shit.” Harrison caught himself a moment later. “I ...”
He shook his head as he read the last few lines. Who were these people? He’d heard
rumours of an underground, of course, but nothing concrete. The security services were damn good at rooting out dissidence ... his heart seemed to jump as he realised he was on a list. He ... what the hell did they think he’d done? He’d spoken sharply to one of his contractors ... was that it? Or was it when he’d tried to keep his trained personnel from joining the military and getting themselves killed? Or ... or what? Had he talked in his sleep? Paranoia washed through him as he reread the message. Who could be trusted? Maybe his secretary had reported him. She’d seemed a little less enthusiastic, last time he’d bent her over the desk and fucked her ... perhaps she hadn’t really wanted it. He swallowed, hard. What should he do? Reply to the message? Or ignore it and hope the underground, if it was the underground, went away? He just didn’t know.
The message glowed on his terminal. He thought the screen was concealed from prying eyes, but what if he was wrong? The underground might want him, yet ... what if it wasn’t the underground? What if it was a test of loyalty? If he sent the reply, he might be confirming that he was a dissident ... his heart pounded in his chest. What was he to do? If he made the wrong call, it would kill him. And yet ...
Heart thudding, he made his decision.
***
“Did you hear the news?”
Rachel looked up, sourly. It was easy to pretend she hadn’t slept well. The barracks were uncomfortable even by military standards. The shower dribbled and the towels were rough and the food ... it put her in mind of the joke about men deserting when they were threatened with field rations. It hadn’t struck her as funny until she’d seen what the Civil Guardsmen had to eat in the field. She’d practically staggered all the way to the mess hall and crashed into a chair.
Fran smiled at her. Rachel found her a little annoying, if only because Fran was young and bubbly and surprisingly calculating. She’d even responded to Commander Archer’s advances. Her friendly nature made her more dangerous than someone who was in it for herself. She kept trying to make friends with her fellow staffers ...
“No,” Rachel said. “What happened?”
“I heard it from Archer,” Fran said. She showed no awareness of the monitors she knew had to be embedded in the walls. “Colonel Belmar was arrested for treason!”
“He was?” Rachel showed as little interest as possible. The senior officers were supposed to live in their own little world. Staffers like Fran - and Lieutenant Hannah Gresham - were not meant to gossip about them. “What happened?”
“Archer didn’t know all the details,” Fran said. “But he was caught and marched off in cuffs.”
He probably got one of my messages, Rachel thought. She didn’t know the colonel. She had no idea which way he would have jumped, if he’d been given the chance. He got one of the messages and it destroyed him.
Fran grinned, brilliantly. “What do you think he was doing?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said, sharply. She was tempted to remind the younger woman that walls had ears. Literally. “But does it really matter?”
She stood, trying not to feel a pang of guilt. She’d destroyed a man she’d never met. She couldn’t help feeling there was something dishonourable in it. And yet ...
There’s no other way to win, she told herself. And if we win quickly, the poor bastard might survive the war.
But she knew, as she headed for the door, that she was almost certainly wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Two
This is, as a noted and somewhat wordy pre-space sage put it, the root of money. The money itself is worthless. The thing that matters is what the money represents to the users. Money is created by those who turn raw materials (the trunk) into wealth (the house).
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Rise and Fall of Interstellar Capitalism
“They’ve got the space elevator targeted, Captain,” Lieutenant Yang said. “If we try to send down a pod, they’ll blow holes in the cable.”
Kerri nodded, tartly. The battle in space had stalemated. It galled her, more than she’d admit to anyone, to have so little room to manoeuvre ... but there was no point in trying to hide from reality. They’d cleared a corridor to allow them to land troops and supplies on the surface, yet the enemy ground-based defences were strong enough to keep the marines from capturing the high orbitals and hammering the planet into submission. The anchor station was useless as long as the enemy could fire on the cable itself. They’d have to leave the system alone until the PDCs were captured or destroyed.
And there might not be much left of the planet if the war goes on so long, she mused, as she studied the display. Or when the enemy fleet returns.
Her heart sank. They’d captured enough intelligence to be fairly sure that two-thirds of the remaining enemy fleet had been scattered across the empire, rescuing and recovering trained personnel. It was just a matter of time until the fleet returned. When it did ... she made a face as she studied the fleet list. Ideally, the ships would return one by one and get blown away by her squadron. If they returned as a group, she might be in some trouble. She had the nasty feeling they’d be outgunned.
The intercom bleeped. “Captain, we’ve picked up a spacer who wants to see you,” Tomas said. “He’s a Family Man.”
Kerri felt a flicker of excitement, which dimmed as she realised the newcomer wouldn’t be - couldn’t be - Haydn. “Send him up,” she said. She glanced at Yang. “We’ll discuss the matter later.”
Yang saluted. “Yes, Captain.”
The hatch hissed open. Kerri looked up with interest, then nodded as Specialist Phelps stepped into the compartment. Phelps hadn’t changed in the months since she’d flown him and his squad to Hameau. He was a tall wiry man, without the muscles on his muscles popular entertainment led her to expect, with an air of confidence that suggested he could handle anything. Kerri felt herself responding to it, even though she’d met enough Pathfinders to know they died like everyone else. It was easy to believe there was nothing the tall man couldn’t do.
“Specialist,” she said. The rank covered a multitude of sins. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And you.” Phelps took the seat she offered him gratefully. “Have you seen anything of the others?”
“No,” Kerri said. Phelps had had three others under his command, hadn’t he? “You’re the first we’ve recovered.”
Phelps grimaced. “We took up four different roles,” he said. “I was expecting at least two to make it home.”
He stared at his hands for a long moment. His subordinates had a degree of freedom and independence most subordinates could only envy, and the mission briefing had assumed they’d be operating independently, but there were limits. It couldn’t be easy to know his people were, at best, somewhere within enemy territory. Or dead ... their bodies falling into the atmosphere with the rest of the debris. There might never be closure. Kerri was experienced enough to know that starships could be blown to atoms, their crews reduced to dust and less than dust, but ... she understood. It was never easy to deal with missing people, even when one didn’t know them personally. The Pathfinders were practically family.
“There are quite a few facilities still in enemy hands,” Kerri told him. “They might have remained underground.”
“I hope so,” Phelps said. He looked up, meeting her eyes with a grim intensity. “I need to go down to the planet. I’m useless up here.”
“I wouldn’t say useless,” Kerri said. “We’re contesting a number of orbital and asteroid installations ...”
“There’s nothing I can do here someone else can’t do,” Phelps said. “I could try to sneak into the nearest asteroid settlement, Captain, but they’ll be wise to that trick now. There’s certainly no hope of getting them to panic and start moving people around again. Down there” - he jabbed a finger at the deck - “I can be more useful. If I’m the last Pathfinder ...”
“There’s no reason to assume your comrades are dead,” Kerri said, sharply. “Pathfinders have survived worse.”
“They shoul
d have reported back,” Phelps told her. “Rachel was on the anchor station. She could have made herself known to the boarding party, when they stormed the installation. Even if the others were cut off, they could have slipped out a message” - he shook his head - “I have to assume the worst. And there’s really nothing for me to do here.”
Kerri keyed her terminal, bringing up the shuttle schedule. “I can add you to the MEU unloading plan, if you want,” she said. “You might have to clear it with the logistics staff. I don’t know how much leeway they’ll have for you.”
“It’ll be a start,” Phelps said. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know if I’ve done you any favours,” Kerri said. She nodded to the in-system display. “There’s a chance you’ll be trapped on the ground. Again.”
“We’ll cope,” Phelps said. “Up here, I’ll be useless. Down there, I might make a difference.”
“Good luck,” Kerri said. She tapped a command into the terminal. “We’ll be sending a shuttle to Roger Young this afternoon. You can go on it.”
“Thank you,” Phelps said, again. “I won’t forget it.”
Kerri nodded, returning her attention to the display as the Pathfinder took his leave. Space looked peaceful, but she knew it was an illusion. The remaining enemy ships were biding their time, waiting for reinforcements to arrive. Kerri hoped and prayed the forces on the ground were enough to win the war before it was too late. They’d be in some trouble if the squadron wound up pinned against the planet. They really didn’t have much space to manoeuvre if everything went to hell.
If that happens, we’ll have to abandon the high orbitals quickly, she thought. And that means the guys on the ground will be fucked.
***
Major-General Gerald Anderson had spent most of his service on the front lines, or in offices close enough to the front lines to avoid inspections by officers with better connections than service records, but he’d spent a few months serving as an advisor to a Grand Senator. He’d honestly never understood how the man could surround himself with so much luxury, to the point it was wasteful beyond words. Here ... the mansion had been practically empty, with a single owner and a handful of staff. The paintings on the walls were never seen, the rows of books on the shelves were never read ... the guest bedrooms were ready for guests who rarely, if ever, came. There was something about the mansion that bothered him, although he couldn’t put it into words. Something oddly ... sad.
The Halls of Montezuma Page 21