Keep the Faith

by Daniel Gibbs

  David turned to see a male human in civilian clothes and ballistic armor. He was on the short side, portly with thinning hair. “Yes?”

  “Douglas Leavitt, at your service.”

  There was something about the man that David found off-putting, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “What can I do for you?”

  “I represent the Consortium for Progress. We’ve been assigned to provide logistical and engineering support for construction projects on New Rostov,” Leavitt said while flashing a one-hundred-watt smile.

  Aha. Independent contractors the CDF’s brought in to help with rebuilding efforts. Used helicar salesmen, most of them. “That doesn’t tell me what I can do for you, Mr. Leavitt.”

  The smile never faded. “We, of course, want to work hand in hand with the CDF and our Royal Saurian Navy allies. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all…”

  That’s where I remember the name from. David narrowed his eyes. “Let’s get something straight. You have one job here. Help the people of this planet recover from decades of abuse and mistreat by their League of Sol masters. Are we clear on that?”

  “I don’t understand, Colonel.”

  “Allow me to help you understand. I saw the report of what your so-called Consortium pulled last month, shaking down disaffected League citizens to make more profit and up your bottom line.”

  “That was a rogue—”

  “Sure it was, and I’m the pope,” David said, cutting Leavitt off. “I don’t care for contractors. I care even less for contractors performing jobs that are inherently military or government in nature. One of the few contractors I respect was just transferred back to Canaan. Now I’m left dealing with your sorry lot.”

  “I must protest—”

  “Stow it,” David barked. “Now listen to me and listen good. If I catch you or any of your employees shaking down people here, charging for services, or accepting bribes to get to the top of the line, I’ll see to it you do hard time in a penal colony. Are we clear, mister?”

  “Again, I must—”

  “Are we clear?” David said, slowly enunciating each word to make his point. “The proper response is ‘Crystal, sir’.”

  Leavitt’s face turned bright red, and the smile finally disappeared. “Crystal, sir.”

  “Good. Dismissed.” When Leavitt made no move to walk away, David continued, “That means leave, Mister Leavitt. Now.”

  After the man beat a hasty retreat, Calvin glanced at David. “A bit harsh for you, sir.”

  David grunted. “I find those who prey on the weak to be the lowest of the low. They disgust me. Especially when my taxes are used to fund them.”

  “Still wound a little tight?”

  “I suppose so. Aren’t you? Combat every few days, or less if the League sends a fleet to mix it up? Add on to it the unpleasantness a few months back.” The thing we can’t discuss, or deal with, courtesy of General Erhart.

  Calvin nodded. “Yeah, I think we’re all a bit stressed, sir. Still, if you need to talk…”

  “I’ll come see you,” David said and flashed a smile. “Still talking to Doctor Ellison?”

  “I am,” Calvin replied, his voice growing quiet.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Not sure I believe that, sir. I come from the school of dealing with your crap and move on.”

  “I tried that. Didn’t work out so well. Every once in a while, I try it again.”

  “What’s that old saw about the definition of insanity being to do the same thing over and over again?”

  “And expecting different results,” David finished, laughing as he did.

  “Well, I’d better be getting you back to your shuttle and let you fleet boys do your thing while we make preparations for the garrison force to arrive.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Demood. Lead the way.”

  4

  Main Governmental Complex

  Canaan

  November 1st, 2462

  “Sorry I’m late, ladies and gentlemen,” President Justin Spencer said as he walked through the door to a meeting room within the Canaan governmental complex. Flanked by his ever-present bodyguards, he made his way to the head of the table.

  Everyone else stood immediately. All eyes focused intently on him.

  “Please, be seated,” Spencer continued, dropping into a chair and staring down the table. “Not too often I’m informed the Coalition Bureau of Investigation’s drug enforcement division has an emergency. You’ve got my attention.”

  The makeup of the room struck Spencer as odd; civilian members of law enforcement and in-uniform military officers rarely shared the same space. The Terran Coalition took great pains to keep law enforcement and military actions separate.

  “Mr. President, thank you for joining us, sir. The information we’re about to share with you is classified at the highest level. We quite frankly aren’t sure if any electronic means of communication were secure enough,” a woman said from halfway down the table.

  Spencer took note of her brightly colored purple hijab. It reminded him of his campaign chairwoman from the last election cycle. “As I said, you’ve got my attention, Miss?”

  “Rajiya Qadir, sir. Deputy assistant director, counterintelligence division, CBI.”

  Spencer frowned briefly. What’s counterintelligence doing involved in a drug case?

  Qadir continued. “For some time, sir, we’ve been tracking a new drug that has spread across the Terran Coalition. It’s called Orbita—”

  “Orbita?” Spencer interrupted.

  “Because it supposedly makes you so high, you feel like you’re in orbit, sir.”

  Spencer couldn’t help but snicker. “Okay, drug dealers generate bad puns too. You wouldn’t have called me down here for something minor, so please continue.” Many of those around the table laughed softly at Spencer’s crack, but he observed concern on many faces.

  “In six months, it’s gone from one corner of our space to another. CBI has had little success rolling up dealer networks. We’ve been playing whack-a-mole. Take one group down, and another pops up in its place.”

  “Unless I’m mistaken, Director Qadir, that’s how most drug syndicates function, correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. However, CBI has had enormous success in eradiating most distribution networks since the outbreak of the war. With so many CDF ships in space, drug running is too risky for most humans to engage in. Not to mention, our collective religious beliefs don’t leave much room for recreational use of narcotics. Add the tight border restrictions we have into the mix, and aliens aren’t getting drugs in either.”

  “I’m aware of some religions that would disagree, but we’ll let that slide,” Spencer said with a smile.

  “To make a long story short, sir, we finally got a break. Three days ago, we captured a League of Sol intelligence asset during a raid on a warehouse CBI suspected of being a clearinghouse for Orbita.”

  And this explains why CDF and CBI are working together. “It’s all starting to make sense. Do you think the League is connected to drug dealers? That’s something of a stretch.”

  “Not connected, sir. We think the League invented the drug and is overseeing the distribution of it throughout the Terran Coalition. There are indications it’s being pushed toward the Saurian Empire as well.”

  Spencer stared at Qadir like she’d grown a second head.

  “Director Qadir, why would the League of Sol engage in petty criminal activity? Even if they were distributing this stuff on a wide scale, it’s still no better than organized crime. The League’s a lot of things. The mafia, it’s not.”

  A white-haired man further down the table from Qadir leaned forward. He was Gideon Yoram, director of the CBI. Spencer had appointed him the prior year. They’d served together many years prior in the CDF. “Justin, I thought it was nuts too. Hear her out.”

  Spencer let his head rest on the chair. “Okay. Continue, Director.”

&n
bsp; “Thank you, sir,” Qadir said. “It’s not just a random street drug, sir. We put our best biochemists on it, and the substance is nothing short of remarkable. Orbita is more addictive than anything we’ve ever seen, sir. The best anti-withdrawal medication and opioid receptor blockers have little to no effect on it. After one use, most humans are addicted. After two uses, ninety percent of all humans are fully addicted. The withdrawal is so bad, it causes death in twenty-five percent of cases.”

  Spencer’s jaw dropped open. “Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

  “We weren’t sure this thing was more than street level narcotics until two months ago,” Yoram interjected. “Then the weird stuff started happening. Every time we busted someone important, they ended up dead. Or the family of the perp disappeared. Or a random computer system crash wiped out vital information we’d gathered. Rajiya has been sure from the beginning this thing was a League of Sol attempt to destabilize us. It took me a while, but I’ve come around to her point of view. We assembled a team of CDF intelligence operatives, CBI special agents and support staff, and started compartmentalizing our movements.”

  “Which eliminated whatever leak you had and set up the bust a few days ago?” Spencer asked.

  “Exactly, sir. Now we need to act before they cover their tracks.”

  “Whatever you need, you’ve got it.”

  “I’m not sure you’ll say that once you hear what the team has in mind, sir,” Qadir said, flashing a smile toward him.

  “Nothing surprises me these days, Director,” Spencer replied. One more problem. I swear, after nearly eight years on this job, I’m ready for retirement.

  David had just settled into the first watch—the one he always tried to stand himself—on the bridge of the Lion of Judah. Several days had passed since New Rostov had surrendered, and relief efforts continued. All those tens of thousands of people worked like slaves in mines that weren’t fit for the worst war criminals in the galaxy. The League continues to find new ways to disgust me.

  Taylor interrupted his thoughts. “Conn, communications. Flash traffic for you, sir. General MacIntosh.”

  “Put him through to my monitor, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir, the message is tagged for your eyes only.”

  David glanced back. “Well, in that case, put it through to my day cabin. XO, you have the conn.”

  Aibek grunted from his seat, directly next to David. “This is the XO. I have the conn.”

  “Don’t get too used to it, XO,” Master Chief Rebecca Tinetariro, the ever-present senior enlisted soldier on the Lion stated. “Colonel doesn’t like giving up his chair.”

  As he walked off the bridge, David smirked at Tinetariro as he went by. “Nothing quite feels as good as that big chair, Master Chief.”

  It was only a few steps to his day cabin, a small space directly off the bridge that was an office with a small rack. Designed for use during a running engagement or a similar high-stress situation, it allowed him to get a few minutes of shut-eye without being ten minutes’ walk away from his station.

  David sat down at his desk, pausing briefly to adjust the placement of one of his knickknacks; an inert hand grenade bolted down to a piece of wood. It had a small plaque on it that read “Complaint Department, Please Take a Number.” The pin of the grenade had a little “1” attached to it. A gift from a Master Chief many years prior, it was one of his prized possessions.

  A few minutes later, MacIntosh’s unsmiling face appeared on David’s tablet.

  “Good evening, Colonel Cohen.”

  “General,” David replied, flashing a smile. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “First, any updates on the Rostov situation?”

  “Not really, sir. It was all in my report yesterday. The civilian relief NGOs continue to work, getting food and medicine to anyone who needs it, which is the entire planet,” David said.

  “Good. I’m recalling the Lion of Judah to Canaan, for new orders.”

  David’s mouth dropped open and nearly rebounded off his desk. “Sir?”

  “I have a problem that requires your ship and unique skills.”

  “Have we performed inadequately at the front, sir?”

  MacIntosh shook his head. “It’s not about you, the Lion, or her crew’s performance. I need a ship that has a Marine Expeditionary Unit on it, a flight deck, and some big guns. I could send a fleet, or I could send the one ship that inspires awe, and let’s face it, fear in those who face it in battle.”

  Well, he’s right about that. “Can you explain the mission, sir?”

  “Negative, Colonel. You’ll be briefed once you return to Canaan. We’re going to cover this as saying the ship is receiving some engineering upgrades. The mission is classified at the TS/SCI level. Your senior officers and yes, you too, will perform some photo opportunities around Canaan. Kiss babies, visit schools, that sort of thing. Your true purpose is to be considered top secret, code word compartmentalized. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  “Excellent, Colonel. I look forward to seeing you in the flesh. I want the Lion back in orbit of Canaan within four days. MacIntosh out.”

  David leaned back in his chair, pondering the general’s orders. What in the name of all that’s holy could be so pressing as to pull the strongest, most powerful ship in the CDF fleet back to Canaan, and away from the sharp tip of the spear? As he stood up, he shook his head. The ways and methods of the joints chief of staff never cease to amaze me. Well, regardless, it’ll be nice to be home for a few days. I haven’t seen Canaan in over three months. He forced down anger building up within him and went back to his day.

  5

  David’s alarm buzzed the following morning at 0430 CMT—Coalition Mean Time—obnoxiously loud. He almost hit his head as he jerked awake from a deep sleep. Wiping his eyes, he got out of bed and pulled on a set of workout clothes, along with a pair of sneakers. Pausing before heading to the officers’ gym, he put his hands over his eyes and began to pray in Hebrew.

  “Hear O’Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. Blessed is the name of His glorious kingdom forever and ever. I shall love the Lord my God with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my might. Lord, bless my actions this day that I may glorify Your name and be Your instrument in everything that I do.”

  The morning prayer—known as the Shema—completed, David began his day. He had called for a staff briefing at 0630 and walked into the conference room on deck with ten minutes to spare. He’d already exercised, completed his grooming, and eaten breakfast. Feeling energized, he sat down at the head of the table and smoothed out his khaki uniform top. It was the uniform of the day as opposed to the blue jumpsuits, since they were heading back to port.

  Aibek was the first one through the hatch. “Good morning, Colonel. You always manage to arrive before the rest of us.”

  “I’m sure I’ve said it before… my dad was always drilling the mantra ‘if you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re early, you’re on time’ into me.”

  “Once or twice,” the large Saurian replied with a teeth-baring grin as he took his place next to David.

  Over the next few minutes, more members of the senior staff—Ruth, Taylor, Hammond, Tinetariro, Amir, and Calvin—arrived and sat down. David found himself lost within his thoughts, staring at the holoprojecter and not paying attention to the small talk going on around him. What possible emergency could there be worth pulling the Lion off the front lines? He ran dozens of scenarios through his head. None of them good, and none made sense either.

  The voice of Doctor Hayworth pulled him back into the conversation. “Good morning, Colonel Cohen. Or Shabbat Shalom as you say.”

  “Only on Shabbat, Doctor,” David said, glancing up and grinning. “It's not Shabbat. If it were, I’d be in the shul.”

  “Praying to the invisible man in the sky, yes, I know.”

  “See, you had to take a perfectly good greeting and mess it up,” Calvin interjected.
“Come on, Doc, quit while you’re ahead. We were all impressed you didn’t deliver a barb with the greeting.”

  Hayworth smirked in reply and sat down toward the end of the table.

  Major Elizabeth Merriweather, the overall CDF special projects director for the anti-matter reactor program, was the next in. “Sorry I’m late, sir,” she said, addressing David.

  “Two minutes till, Major. You’re fine.”

  She plopped into a chair next to Hayworth.

  Going on two years commanding this ship, and I still don’t understand why they get along so well. David had thought for a while that maybe they were lovers. That theory had been laid to rest long ago. It seemed as if the temperamental doctor was her mentor, and she, in turn, tried to keep his behavior from being too over the top.

  David glanced up to see Major Arthur Hanson, the Lion’s chief engineer, and Doctor Tural, the chief medical officer, walk through the hatch. Tural secured it behind him. And now we can begin.

  He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me at such an early hour this morning. I asked you all here to relay new orders from General MacIntosh.”

  “We quitting this planet-hopping nonsense and heading straight to Earth, sir?” Calvin said, a wicked grin on display.

  “Negative, Colonel. The Lion of Judah is heading back to Canaan for a new assignment.”

  “What?” Aibek said, nearly roaring the word. “The fight is here! Why would they pull us back? It is dishonorable.”

  “I don’t know. It’s top-secret, special compartmentalized information. Those of us that need to know will be briefed before whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing. Command is going to cover our movements by having us engage in some public relations activities.”

  Groans broke out across the room.

  “I’ll schedule a guest lecture or two,” Hayworth said, smiling.

  “That makes you happy?” Ruth asked in disbelief.

  “Teaching young minds is an activity I enjoy, Lieutenant.”