by Jay Allan
Campbell nodded and sat quietly for a few seconds. “How far forward have you considered this? You may not be planning on funding a war, but what if your investigation leads to one?”
Vance took a deep breath then exhaled. “Well, I suppose that is a possibility. Perhaps solid evidence of external tampering on Earth will be enough to awaken the council to the danger and spur them to action. I guess I will cross that bridge when I come to it.” He stared across the table, his eyes locked intently on Campbell’s. “So will you go, old friend? Will you help me investigate what is going on?”
Campbell nodded slowly and offered his friend a faint smile. “Of course I will go.” He smiled. “Retirement’s a fucking bore anyway.”
* * * * *
“Andre, thank you for meeting me down here.” The sounds of heavy machinery almost drowned out Vance’s words. The room was huge, the far wall barely visible in the distance. There were massive turbines all around, and a series of 20-meter high pumps along the far wall, connected to conduits taller than a man. The chamber was the very heart of the Ares Metroplex, pumping air and water and heat to the residences and commercial areas of the subterranean complex.
“Of course, Roderick. When have you called that I have not come?” Vance had known Andre Girard for seventy years. He’d been a teenager when they’d first met. Girard had been one of his father’s brash young agents at the time. When the elder Vance was tragically killed, Girard had helped Roderick fill his father’s chair far too early. Much of Vance’s knowledge then, especially his tradecraft and understanding of the scope of Martian Intelligence’s operations, had come right from Girard.
Vance smiled weakly. “You have been a loyal friend and companion, Andre, for more years than I care to count.” His voice was halting. He’d called his friend to ask him to do something, but now he found it difficult to speak the words.
“I can’t recall the last time I saw you so troubled. What is it, my old friend? There is no problem you cannot share with me.” Girard stood tall and proud, and he looked decades years younger than his 107 years.
“It is not doubt about your trustworthiness that worries me, Andre. It is what I must ask of you that gives me pause. Your life has been one of service, most of it in secrecy. You have done as much as any man to guide the Confederation and to save if from the forces that might easily have destroyed it, but for you there have been no parades, no medals. Just the silent commendation of your spymasters. It is the bane of the successful spy, to live a life of such danger and to enjoy so little appreciation.” He paused uncomfortably. “And now I must ask you to do something above and beyond all you have already done…and at great risk to yourself.”
“Roderick,” the old spy said, “parades and medals are meaningless to me. I’ve had all the accolades I could have wanted, from you and your father before you. Do I seem like a man who craves cheering crowds or little hunks of gold and silver on my chest? No…for me, the respect and admiration of men I admire is all I ever wanted.” He reached out and put a weather-worn hand on Vance’s arm. “Now tell me what is going on. And what you need of me. I am, as always, at your service.”
Vance took a deep breath. “I may be overreacting about this. Indeed, this may be no more than my own paranoia.”
“Save that for someone who knows you less well than I, Roderick. I have learned to trust your judgment without reservation. If you told me you expected a fire breathing dragon to attack the city, I’d get myself a flame-retardant suit.”
Vance allowed himself a tiny smile, but it faded quickly from his lips. “Very well, Andre. You know, of course, that we have long been providing humanitarian supplies to settlements on Earth?”
Girard nodded.
“You are also aware that the council has expressly forbidden any expansion of the program? No provision of technology, no military units deployed to the surface?”
“Yes,” Girard said softly. “At least my knowledge of the relief operation strongly suggests this. Though, my information pipeline in retirement is not what it was before.” After a brief pause: “I hadn’t been aware that you’d tried to obtain authorization for more.”
“Indeed, I have. The population of Earth is less than 2% of what it was before the Fall, yet there are as many human beings still living on man’s homeworld—in conditions of miserable squalor—than there are in the rest of Occupied Space combined. I understand caution, and I realize the Confederation has suffered greatly too and must focus its resources on its own recovery. But to do nothing—or as little as we have done—is a crime against humanity.” The frustration of a dozen past arguments came out in Vance’s tone. “I mean, the Superpowers aren’t going to reappear if we give the survivors heaters and basic electrical generation. And those survivors were as much victims of the Powers they were compelled to live under as anyone else.”
“They do not resist out of callous or selfish impulses, Roderick. They are afraid. The council is mostly civilian, industrialists and financiers. They saw most of their wealth evaporate in Stark’s final assault and the Fall. They watched as the citizens of our four largest cities retreated underground, seeking safety from the destruction.”
The sounds of the machinery almost drowned out their words, and Girard leaned in, closer to Vance’s ear. “Even three decades later, they look inward…back, not ahead. They see most Martians still living below ground, in the tunnels beneath the shattered domes. They see how much weaker we are than we were before, how much of our old industry is gone. And the Second Incursion scared the hell out of them…it reminded them the First Imperium—and God knows what else—is still out there. And mankind is vastly weaker than he once was, far less able to face new threats.”
“But that fear pushes them to make us weaker. It feeds on itself. Surely, they should understand.”
“They should, Roderick. But they do not. And they will not.” He paused and stared into his friend’s eyes. “It is clear to me you need something done. Something not sanctioned by the council.” He offered Vance a warm smile. “So, why don’t you just tell me what it is and be done with it?”
Vance stood quietly for a few seconds, an expression of surprise on his face. “Now I remember why you were such a cornerstone of intelligence operations for 70 years.” He hesitated a few more seconds. “I want to send someone to Earth, Andre. Someone reliable.” Another pause. “In direct violation of council orders.”
Girard stared back emotionlessly. If he was surprised by Vance’s statement, he hid it completely. “Clearly there is a problem on Earth beyond a lack of portable heaters. What is happening, Roderick? What do you fear?”
“There have been reports, Andre…for several years now. People disappearing, rumors of kidnappers rounding up stragglers.”
Girard’s face was cold, expressionless. Mass kidnappings could be a number of things, but none of them were good. “Is it widespread?”
“I hadn’t thought so.” Vance’s voice was grim. “But I was wrong. And that is why you are here.”
Andre took a deep breath. “So what do you know? And what do you need me to go find out?”
“We had a list of settlements, big ones, places to start if we ever managed to get council approval for expanded operations. One of these was called Jericho. It was in the northeast of the old US section of the Alliance. Mostly refugees from New York and Boston.”
“Was?”
“Yes. Was. That is the problem. There were over a thousand people in Jericho. It was one of the biggest settlements on Earth.” Vance sighed. “I had given the larger villages radios—a borderline violation of council orders, but close enough to the gray area. They had instructions never to use them except in an emergency. The Jericho unit transmitted a distress call for 41 minutes…and then it went dead.”
“You think someone attacked Jericho? I would have thought a settlement that big was strong enough to fend off any threats still existing on Earth.”
Vance nodded. “You’d be right. There are no oth
er villages or wandering bands capable of destroying something like Jericho. But it was nevertheless destroyed. I was able to confirm it with scanner readings from the observation satellites. It is completely abandoned, burned to the ground.” He looked right into Girard’s eyes. “It had to be a force from off-world. Jericho was just too big to be wiped out by anything else.”
The two men stood staring at each other, silent except for the din of the machinery. It was obvious they had both known what they were talking about, but Vance had finally said it out loud. The Martian Confederation had declared the entire Sol system quarantined. But now, someone had violated that order. It was a direct challenge to the Confederation, though the council’s shortsightedness masked it.
“But,” Girard finally said, “that means they’ve been able to penetrate our scanning grid.”
The Confederation tracked all traffic going through the Sol system’s two warp gates. In theory, nothing should be able to get through without the Martian navy knowing everything about it. But the Martian Torches had partial stealth technology, and the ships Gavin Stark had used to attack Mars thirty years before had been even more proof against detection. Perhaps this enemy had something similar. Vance was about to say something to that effect when he realized his friend was already there.
Girard stared at Vance, a growing look of shock on his face. “You mean we are dealing with someone with stealth ships?” As far as anyone in Martian Intelligence knew, Stark’s vessels had all been destroyed, the technology lost. And the other worlds in Occupied Space were too busy trying to become self-sufficient with food and basic industry to pour resources into staggeringly expensive R&D programs.
Vance nodded, exhaling hard as he did. “It would seem. So now you understand my concern. If we are dealing with an enemy with stealth technology, our potential dangers increase geometrically. It goes well beyond humanitarian concerns for the survivors on Earth.”
“But the council…surely they…”
“They won’t believe it, Andre. Not without some kind of proof. I’ve been trying to convince them to expand the Earth support efforts for too long. They will see it as an attempt on my part to stir up fears to win support for my programs. And the destruction we saw thirty years ago, the long, slow struggle to rebuild since then…it has made them insular and defensive in their thinking. They are convinced no one can threaten the Confederation if we put all our efforts into home defense and, as long as that is the case, they will resist all entreaties to divert resources to anything else.”
“So,” Girard said, “you want me to go to Earth.” He spoke bluntly, without reservation. He knew they were alone. That’s why Vance had chosen such an inconvenient spot to meet. “You want me to investigate, to find out what is going on.” He paused. “To get you that proof.”
“That is exactly what I need, Andre, but it is not that simple.” He hesitated. “You would be violating the council’s orders. You would be in danger not only on the mission, but upon your return as well if any word of this leaks out. You could lose everything. You could end up in prison. I am asking a great deal of you.”
Girard nodded. “Bullshit. When have either of us let personal risk get in the way of duty? Real duty, not pandering to a bunch of political hacks. Just tell me everything you know. And I’ll need to get there without being noticed. Perhaps I could slip onto one of your relief ships.”
Vance put his arm out, setting it on Girard’s shoulder. “You are a true hero, Andre. And a patriot. A real one.” He paused. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then don’t do it at all. I’ve served Mars since you were chasing schoolgirls, and I’ll serve her until I die, in whatever manner I must.”
Chapter 9
Dyracchium Plateau (“Dead Man’s Ridge”)
Planet Lysandria, Delta Sigma III
Earthdate: 2318 AD (33 Years After the Fall)
“All reserves forward now.” Cyn Kuragina was standing just behind the front line, watching her troopers blaze away at the approaching enemy forces. They were outnumbered almost ten to one at the point of impact, and now ammunition was running low. She’d been steadily feeding in the last of her fresh reserves, but now she was down to the final two platoons. Once those 80 troopers were on the line, she’d have everything committed. Falstaff’s people were moving around the flank, but there were enemy delaying forces holding them up every klick or so. And her people weren’t going to last much longer.
She pulled her assault rifle from her back. She’d been doing a Colonel’s job all day, but now that was done. Everybody was committed and fighting like hell, and they would stand or fall where they were. She could accomplish more as another rifle in the firing line than standing around playing commander. A single soldier might not seem like much, she thought, but one Black Eagle is a force to be reckoned with.
She moved up to the small lip of ground her people were using for cover, and she stared out over the plateau. The enemy was pounding her positions with rockets and mortars, trying to cut down on her people’s fire while their infantry moved toward the ridge. The ground had been savaged by two days of constant battle, and the enemy soldiers were using the craters and mounds of disrupted earth as cover.
Half her autocannons were out of action, and the others were running low on ammunition. She had them firing aimed bursts now, trying to conserve. The soldiers moving forward were good, really good. They were maximizing the shattered ground, advancing in short bursts, leapfrogging while their heavier weapons tried to suppress her people along the defensive line.
The approaching soldiers were all the unidentified enemy, the ones with the brown armor. There were no Gold Spears anywhere. She’d gotten a dozen attempted communiques from various officers of the Spears—attempts to surrender, no doubt. But General Cain had issued his orders, and as far as Cyn Kuragina was concerned, that was like the word of God.
A wave of dirt and shattered stones pelted her armor, the result of an enemy shell that landed too close for comfort. Her eyes flitted up to her display. Another half dozen of her people were down since the last time she’d checked. She knew they were taking out more of the enemy, but this wasn’t an even fight. They couldn’t trade casualties, even at a 2-1 or 3-1 rate.
“Colonel Kuragina…” It was Cain, and there was something odd in his tone. A seething anger, malevolent, almost feral.
“Yes, General?”
“Colonel, you are to prepare to attack all across your line. I want everything committed, nothing held back.”
She felt her stomach clench into a knot. There was no way her people could charge, not against what was coming at them. They’d been wiped out before they cleared the plateau. “Sir?”
“Look at your scanner, Colonel. The Blue Regiment is inbound. They’ll be on the ground in three minutes. When they hit dirt, I want your people to advance immediately and pin the enemy between your forces.”
She glanced at her display again, sending a thought to her AI to widen the scale. There they were, along the top edge. Waves of incoming troops, Ian Vandeveer and his 1,500 fresh Eagles.
The tactical situation had just changed. Dramatically. “Understood, sir,” she snapped back. “It will be a pleasure.” She flipped her com to the unitwide channel. “White Regiment, we’ve got friendlies inbound. ETA two minutes forty-five seconds.” Her tone was changing, becoming more determined with every word, until it was downright bloodthirsty. “And in two minutes thirty, we charge. It’s time to end this, Eagles.”
* * * * *
“Stay on them…nobody escapes.” Dan Sullivan flashed a thought to his AI, instructing it to administer another dose of stims. His own adrenalin was pumping hard, but after two days of almost constant fighting, it needed all the help it could get. “The general wants prisoners, so disable some of these guys and take them alive.”
Sullivan’s company was battered, down to roughly half strength. It was the worst he could remember an Eagles unit being hurt, and he was proud of those s
till in action, fighting hard despite the losses and fatigue. At least the others weren’t all dead. Maybe 20% of his people were KIA, the rest wounded or disabled. And the Eagles’ wounded got the best care in the history of war. From the leading edge trauma systems in their suits to the outstanding field hospitals Darius Cain maintained at enormous expense, if an Eagle could survive the first few minutes after being wounded, he had an 87% chance of returning to the colors. Suit damage and equipment failure also drained strength from a combat unit. You couldn’t exactly keep fighting if your six ton suit developed a malfunction or power failure.
Still, it had been a brutal fight, and one that had looked for a while like it might turn into the first defeat they had suffered, at least to Sullivan and the rest of Kuragina’s battered White Regiment. But then the Blues landed. Sullivan was still amazed at the magnificent accuracy of the drop. Vandeveer’s people landed right on top of the stunned enemy forces, a level of precision almost unheard of. The pinpoint landing was a risk, leaving them potentially vulnerable while they extricated themselves from their gear. But then Kuragina’s people struck, and the shocked enemy found themselves fighting a confused running battle with the Black Eagles.
Sullivan had to admire the foe, at least on one level. The battle was lost. Their lines were pierced in a dozen places, and they had no chance to reform and reorganize. But there hadn’t been a single surrender attempt, nor even one confused rout. They simply continued to fight, wherever they were, at whatever disadvantage they found themselves. As General Cain’s plan moved to fruition, it became a battle of annihilation, but still the enemy hadn’t run. They just kept fighting until they went down.
He saw a cluster of the brown-armored troops caught in a crossfire between two of his squads. They all went down in a few seconds. “Kloster, Jing, move up there. If any of them are alive, take them prisoner.” General Cain wanted captives from the mysterious enemy the Eagles were calling simply, “the browns.” And since they didn’t seem to surrender, the word had gone out to try and take them when they were wounded.