STARCRAFT™: LIBERTY’S CRUSADE

by Jeff Grubb

  “Sorry. Not interested.”

  “I’ll give you your own column.”

  A pause. Finally Mike said, “How big a column?”

  “Full column-page print, or five minutes stand-up for the broadcast. Under your byline, of course.”

  “Regular?”

  “You file, I’ll fill.”

  Another pause. “A raise with that?”

  Anderson named a figure, and Mike nodded.

  “That’s impressive,” he said.

  “Not chump change,” agreed the editor-in-chief.

  “I’m a little old to be planet-hopping.”

  “There’s no real danger. And if something does flare up, there’s combat pay. Automatic.”

  “Fifty percent brain-panned?” Mike asked.

  “If that.”

  Another pause. Then Mike said, “Well, it sounds like a challenge.”

  “And you’re just the man for a challenge.”

  “And it can’t be worse than covering the Tarsonis City Council,” Mike mused, feeling himself sliding down the slippery slope to acceptance.

  “My thoughts exactly,” his editor agreed.

  “And if it would help the network . . .” Yep, Mike thought, he was on the edge, poised to pitch over into the void.

  “You would be a shining light to us all,” said Anderson. “A well-paid, shining light. Wave the flag a little, get some personal stories, ride around in a battlecruiser, play some cards. Don’t worry about us back here at the office.”

  “Cush posting?”

  “Cushiest. I’ve got some pull, you know. Was an old green-tag myself. Three months work, tops. A lifetime of rewards.”

  There was a final pause, a chasm as deep as the concrete canyon that yawned beyond the window.

  “All right,” said Mike, “I’ll do it.”

  “Wonderful!” Anderson reached for the humidor, then caught himself and instead offered Mike his hand. “You won’t regret it.”

  “Why do I feel that I already do?” Michael Liberty asked in a small voice as the editor’s meaty, sweaty hand ensnared his own.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE CUSH POSTING

  Service in the military, for those of you unfortunate enough never to have experienced it firsthand, consists of long periods of boredom broken by mind-shredding threats to one’s life and sanity. From what I can gather from the old tapes, it’s always been like that. The best soldiers are those who can wake suddenly, react instantly, and aim precisely.

  Unfortunately, none of those traits are shared by the military intelligence that controls those soldiers.

  —THE LIBERTY MANIFESTO

  “MR. LIBERTY?” SAID THE PERKY MURDERESS AT THE hatchway. “The captain would like a word with you.”

  Michael Liberty, UNN reporter assigned to the elite Alpha Squadron of the Confederate Marines, propped open one eye and found her, all smiles, standing next to his bunk. An all-night card game had just adjourned, and he was sure the young marine lieutenant had waited until he had lain down before barging into his quarters.

  The reporter let out a deep sigh and said, “Does Colonel Duke expect me immediately?”

  “No, sir,” said the murderess, shaking her head for effect. “He said you should come at your leisure.”

  “Right,” said Mike, swinging his legs over the edge of his bunk and shaking the temptation of sleep from his brain. For Colonel Duke, “at your leisure” usually meant “within the next ten minutes, dammit.” Mike reached for his cigarettes, and only when his hand had dipped into the empty shirt pocket did he remember he had given them up.

  “Filthy habit anyway,” he muttered to himself. To the marine lieutenant he said “Need a shower. Coffee would be good, too.”

  Lieutenant Emily Jameson Swallow, Liberty’s personal assistant, liaison, minder, and spy for her military superiors, waited only long enough to determine that Mike was serious about getting up, then beetled off to the galley. Mike yawned, figured he must have had all of five minutes’ sleep, stripped, and padded off to the sonic cleanser.

  The sonic cleanser was a military model, of course. This meant it was similar in construction to those high-pressure jets that lasted the meat off the bones at slaughterhouses. In the past three months Mike had gotten used to it.

  In the past three months Michael Liberty had gotten used to a lot of things.

  Handy Anderson had been true to his word. The posting was posh, or at least as posh as a military assignment could be. The Norad II was a capital ship, one of the Behemoth-class, all neosteel and laser turrets, as befitted the most legendary of Confederate military units, the Alpha Squadron.

  Alpha Squadron’s primary mission was hunting rebels, particularly the Sons of Korhal, a revolutionary group under the bloodthirsty terrorist Arcturus Mengsk. Unfortunately, the Sons were never where they were supposed to be, and the Norad II and her prized crew spent a lot of time showing the flag (a blue diagonal cross filled with white stars against a red background, the memory of a legend of Old Earth) and keeping the local colonial governments in line.

  As a result, Mike’s biggest challenge so far had been dealing with boredom and finding enough to write about to justify his column. The flag-waving propaganda came easy for the first few stories, but when there was a deficit of real action or achievement, Mike had to reach. A piece on Colonel Edmund Duke, of course. Some human-interest stuff on the well-oiled crew. A bit about the travails of the neurally resocialized that Anderson scotched (out of common decency, Handy explained). Local color on the various planets. Just enough to remind everyone (Handy Anderson in particular) that he was still alive and expected regular payments to his account.

  And then there was a long two-parter about the wonders of the Behemoth-class battlecruisers, a story that was decimated by military censors to a mere few paragraphs. Military secrets, it was explained.

  Like the Sons of Korhal don’t know what we have already, thought Mike as he slipped into his shorts and looked for a less rumpled shirt and pants. Hanging in his locker was a new traveling coat, a going-away present from the guys in the newsroom. It was a long duster that made him look like a denizen of the Old West, but the crew apparently felt that if Mike was going out to the interplanetary sticks, he might as well look the part.

  He slipped into some nondescript pants. Almost on cue, Swallow reappeared with a pot of java and a mug. She poured as Mike buttoned up his shirt.

  The brew was military style “A”—freshly made and scalding, suitable for pouring down on peasants attacking the family castle. The coffee was another thing he had gotten used to.

  Of course, he had also gotten used to three squares, sufficient time to write his columns, and a flexible amount of privacy. As well as an ever-changing group of poker partners, all of whom were young, had no place to spend their paychecks, and could not bluff if their lives depended on it.

  He had even gotten used to Lieutenant Swallow, though her habitual positive attitude bothered him at first. He had expected some sort of minder, of course, some military attaché who would hang over his shoulder as he wrote and make sure he didn’t do anything stupid like drop his pen into the warp coils. But Lieutenant Emily Swallow was like something out of a training film. A particularly cheery training film, the type you show Mom and Dad before shipping their sons and daughters off to extended duty five star systems away. Hell, Lieutenant Emily Swallow looked like she wrote that type of training film.

  Small, petite, and always smiling, she seemed to take every request from Mike seriously, even if they both knew that there was a snowball’s chance that it would be approved. She had no vices, except for the occasional cigarette, accepted with a smile and a guilty shrug. Further, when he hit her up for her own story, she demurred. Most of the crew were stoked up, talking about their lives back home, but Lieutenant Swallow instead just stopped smiling and ran her hand back along the side of her face, as if brushing away long hair that was no longer there.

  That was when Mike not
iced the small divots behind her ear, the marks of the noninvasive neural resocialization that Anderson had mentioned. Yeah, she had been brain-panned, and good. No one could be that perky without an electrochemical lobotomy.

  Mike didn’t bring up the subject again, but instead bribed one of the computer techs for some time with the personnel files (this cost him his two emergency packs of smokes, but by that time he was through the worst of the cravings, and the coffin nails were better used in trade than consumption). He found out that before she had involuntarily joined the marines, young Emily Swallow had the interesting hobby of attracting young men in bars, taking them to her home, tying them up, and flaying the skin and meat from their bones with a fillet knife.

  Most men would be disconcerted by this news, but Michael Liberty found it reassuring. The murderess of ten young men on Halcyon was much more understandable than the smiling, gung-ho woman who looked like someone from a recruiting poster. Now, following her through the corridors of the Norad II to the bridge, Mike wondered how Lieutenant Swallow felt about her medical incarceration and involuntary transformation. He decided that she just didn’t dwell on it, and given her original nature, Mike decided not to press the issue.

  For a huge ship, the Norad II had narrow passageways, built almost as an afterthought after all the landing bays, wardrooms, weapons systems, galleys, computers, and other necessities had been piled in. In the hallways oncoming traffic had to press against walls to pass. Mike noticed large arrows painted on the floor, which Lieutenant Swallow noted were for times when the ship was on alert and soldiers were in full battle armor. Mike realized that the gangways would have been made even narrower had they not been expected to accommodate men in powered combat suits.

  They passed several large bays where technicians were already pulling out wiring and cables. The scuttlebutt was that the Norad II was due for an overhaul, including an upgrade with the Yamato cannon. Given the number of laser batteries, Wraith-class space fighters, and even the rumored nuclear arms carried onboard, the huge spine-mounted cannon would be icing on the cake.

  In fact, this was what Mike expected Colonel Duke to tell him—that the Norad II was going into dry dock for repairs, and he, Michael Liberty, would be on the next shuttle back to Tarsonis. That would make dealing with the old fossil almost worthwhile.

  He revised his opinion when they stepped onto the bridge, and Duke scowled at him. Mind you, Duke never looked particularly pleased to see a member of the press, but this was the deepest and most hostile scowl that Mike had seen yet.

  “Mr. Liberty, reporting as requested, sir,” said Lieutenant Swallow with a salute as sharp as that in any recruiting video.

  The colonel, decked out in his command brown uniform, said nothing but pointed a stubby finger toward his ready room. Lieutenant Swallow led him there, then abandoned him for whatever tasks she did when she wasn’t keeping tabs on him. Probably, Mike mused, something involving skinning puppies.

  Mike’s initial concern grew deeper when he recognized the humanoid shape now hanging from a wall-mounted frame in the ready room. It was a powered combat suit, not one of the standard-issue CMC-300s but a command suit, fitted with its own portable comm system. Colonel Duke’s suit, now shined and greased and ready for the great man to step into it.

  Mike was less sure now that they were going in for that Yamato refit. Most of the marines kept their armor handy, and drills were as common as meals. Liberty managed to avoid that duty, as he was considered a “soft target” and wasn’t cleared for the heavier suits. It was, however, amusing to see the rookies staggering around the narrow passages in full combat armor.

  But for the colonel’s suit to be here, newly polished and ready, boded very ill indeed.

  The suit itself was massive, hunched forward on the hanger under its own weight. In that way, it seemed to Michael Liberty, the empty suit fit its owner well. Colonel Duke reminded Mike of the great apes of Old Earth, the ones that climbed buildings and swatted down primitive aircraft. Gorillas. Duke was an old silverback, the pointy-headed leader of his tribe, and just the way he leaned forward inspired fear in his subordinates.

  Mike knew that Duke was from one of the Old Families, the original leaders of the Koprulu Sector colonies. But he must have done something wrong along the way: Edmund Duke was obviously long overdue for his general’s stars. Mike wondered what nasty incident stood in the way of his promotion, and surmised that it was loud, messy, and deeply buried in the Confederate military files. He wondered what type of pull it would take to get that information out, and if Handy Anderson had it in his not-so-secret vault.

  The door slid open and Colonel Duke strode in like a Goliath-style armored walker scattering infantry units before it. His scowl was even deeper than earlier. He held down a hand to indicate that Mike shouldn’t rise (Mike had had no intention of doing so), circled his wide desk, and sat down. He rested his elbows on the polished obsidian desktop and templed his fingers in front of him.

  “I trust, Liberty, you have had an enjoyable time with us?” he asked. He had the old, faint drawl that marked the elder Families of the Confederacy.

  Mike, who had not expected small talk, managed to stammer out a general affirmative.

  “I am afraid it will not last,” said the colonel. “Our original orders were to be relieved by the Theodore G. Bilbo, and to put in for a retrofit within two weeks. Events have now overtaken us.”

  Mike said nothing. He had been in enough briefings over the years, even on a civilian level, to know not to interrupt until he had something worth interrupting for.

  “We are rerouting our course to the Sara system. I’m afraid it’s in the boonies, on the butt end of nowhere. The Confederacy has two colony worlds there, Mar Sara and Chau Sara. This is an extended patrol over and above our initial mission parameters.”

  Mike just nodded. The colonel was creeping up on the subject, acting like a dog with a chicken bone in its throat—something he had a hard time swallowing and a worse time coughing back up. Mike waited.

  “I must remind you that as a member of the press assigned to the Alpha Squadron, you are limited under the Confederate military code in regard to what your duties are and how you perform them.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mike, sternly enough to give the impression that he gave a rat’s ass about the Confederate military code.

  “And that this extends to your current assignment as well as to future references to events that occur during your posting here.” Duke nodded his pointed head, clearly demanding a response.

  “Yes, sir.” Mike separated the words clearly to underscore his comprehension.

  Another pause, during which Mike could feel the throbbing of the ship around him. Yes, the Norad II was vibrating at a different pitch now, a bit higher, more intense, a bit more frantic. Men and women were preparing the ship for subwarp. And perhaps for combat?

  Mike suddenly wondered about the wisdom of skipping those combat suit drills.

  Colonel Edmund Duke, the dog with the chicken bone in his throat, said, “You know our histories.”

  It was more of a statement than a question. Mike blinked, suddenly unsure how to respond. He settled for “Sir?”

  “How we came to the sector and settled it. Took it for our own,” prompted the colonel.

  “Aboard the sleeper ships, the supercarriers,” Mike said, pulling up the lessons of childhood. “The Nagglfar, the Argo, the Sarengo, and the Reagan. The crews of prisoners and outcasts of Old Earth, crashing onto a scattering of habitable worlds.”

  “And they found three such worlds, right off the bat. And a double-handful nearby that were terrestrial or close enough for army work. But they found no life.”

  “Begging the colonel’s pardon, but there was extensive native life on all three original planets. Plus, most of the colonies and Fringe Worlds have their own ecosystems. Terraforming often, but not always, eradicates native life-forms.”

  The colonel waved off the comment. “But nothing sma
rter than your standard watchdog. Some big insects they domesticated on Umoja, and a lot of stuff that was burned when the world was settled and put under the plow. But nothing smart.”

  Mike nodded. “Intelligent life has always been one of the mysteries of the universe. We have found world after world, but nothing to indicate that there is something else out there as smart as we are.”

  “Until now,” said the colonel. “And you will be the first network reporter on the scene.”

  Mike warmed a bit to the subject. “There have been numerous mysterious formations on many planets that indicate there might have been sentient life at one time. In addition, there are space-haulers’ tales of mysterious lights and foo-fighters.”

  “These aren’t lights in the sky or old ruins. This is living proof of ET activity. That we are not alone out here.”

  Duke let that sink in, and a smirk tugged at the side of his mouth. It did not improve his appearance in the least. Somewhere within the ship a switch closed, and the monstrous engines began to hum.

  Mike stroked his chin and asked, “What do we know so far? Has there been an envoy, a representative? Or was this a chance discovery? Did we find a colony, or was there a direct embassy?”

  The colonel let out a gruff chortle. “Mr. Liberty, let me make myself quite clear. We have made contact with another alien civilization. This contact consisted of them vaporizing the colony of Chau Sara. They burned it to the ground, and then burned the ground beneath it. We’re going there now, but we don’t know if the hostiles are still present.

  “And you will be the first network reporter on the scene,” repeated the colonel. “Congratulations, son.”

  Mike didn’t feel very good about this particular honor.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SARA SYSTEM

  The first contact with another sentient race, and they blow up a planet. Helluva calling card.

  Now, blowing up a planet is nothing new. Christ, we humans did it ourselves not too long ago.