On the window monitors, Colonial defensive batteries opened up from orbiting satellite platforms and ground positions. Guided missiles streaked along the screens on digital threads; rail guns spat armor-piercing rounds that were invisible even to the subnet’s sensors; a handful of AF-11 Harpy fighters dotted the screen for a few seconds and were lost in the explosion of data.
The big ships were easier to track. Two grendel cruisers took massive nuclear hits, and one of the carriers exploded just as its launch tubes opened.
The wall of monitors went black. The windows cleared, and New Witlund’s rust-and-emerald horizon fogged back to clarity.
Thirty seconds of data. That’s what Vermier was operating on. And no way to know what was happening on Quelon now—whether the battle still raged or not.
“That doesn’t look like peace to me,” she said.
Frankly, I agreed with her. But I wasn’t about to sacrifice the story I had for the one I didn’t. Of course, even the story I had depended on me impersonating Sterling. And was I really going to do that? Was I willing to pay the price they would exact from me when the truth got out?
I said, “Yet they’ve only landed one ship here on New Witlund. A frigate, not even a destroyer. They have to know we can’t hold this moon against any serious invasion force. If they didn’t want this meeting, Camp Locke would be crawling with shock troops by now.”
She pursed her lips, eyes narrowed. At last she said, “I’m giving you seventy-two hours because Fleet”—she stabbed the surface of her desk with two stubby fingers—“Fleet apparently thinks your mission is more important than all the men and women living on my base. But know this: I’m also bringing a hammerhead along with your security team.”
The hammerhead surface-to-air missile was a shoulder-launched rocket designed to turn pretty much anything smaller than a warehouse into a cauldron of liquid metal and bubbling flesh. “You want us to take a weapon of war to a peace treaty?”
“That Strangler is vulnerable as long as it’s grounded. If your meeting goes sideways, we’re going to blow their warship to hell. Are we clear?”
I swallowed back the sort of sarcastic remark I might have made to Major Weston back on Holikot. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you in the morning.”
“In the morning?”
“I’m coming with you, captain.”
The words hung in the air between us. I was certain the real Sterling would have bristled at the sudden upending of a carefully planned mission by a senior officer acting on her own discretion. As New Witlund’s planetary station chief, Vermier had considerable flexibility over everything that happened within her jurisdiction. But interfering with a high-priority operation, even under the existing circumstances, could easily ruin her career. Why then was she taking the risk? “Is that . . . necessary?”
She seemed to look through me, as if I still wore the double chevrons of a reserve corporal, or a press pass etched with OrbSyn’s logo. “You saw what’s happening on Quelon, Captain. I’m not going to sit here watching from the sidelines.”
It occurred to me that Vermier was itching for some excuse to countermand our mission orders and take control of it herself, though I had no idea why. I only hoped she didn’t poke around too deeply into Sterling’s personnel file. What if she found something to give me away?
I decided to let it ride and screwed on the stiff, you’re-in-charge expression every recruit learns in boot camp. “Very good, Colonel.”
“Close the door on your way out.”
I stood, gave my best impersonation of a crisp marine salute, and went to the door. When I pulled it closed the windows were black again, and Vermier was staring intently at the recorded invasion.
In the lobby Laclos met me by the door. “I have a sled in the lot, sir. I assume you want to head back to your hotel?”
If they’d sent a combat operator to shuttle me across the base, they must think there was still some element of danger from the locals. “You my new shadow, Master Sergeant?”
“Tops didn’t want you getting lost again, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I suspect that comment ought to offend me, but right now I’m too tired to carry a grudge. You take me back to my hotel room, and I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.”
A hint of a smile touched the corners of her eyes. “No problem, sir.”
We found the sled and drove the few blocks to the hotel, then Laclos followed me all the way up the elevator to the door of my room. It opened for my new comms, and she walked through to make sure there were no surprises. “I’ll be outside if you need anything, Captain.”
I sighed, trying to hide my frustration. What I needed was to be left fully and completely alone. Laclos standing outside my room meant I couldn’t relax. I’d have to stay in character every moment.
Worse, I’d have no opportunity to change my mind about this story—to slip off Sterling’s comms and try to retrieve my old identity from a body bag somewhere in the base morgue. Yes, that idea had occurred to me more than once.
“Master Sergeant,” I said, “I’m not going anywhere. The base is on lockdown. Why don’t you come back for me in the morning at oh-four-thirty? You can drive me to the rendezvous.”
“Sorry, sir,” Laclos said. “If I leave my post, tops’ll have my head on a lunch tray. Get some rest.”
I hadn’t really expected it to work. “Okay, doc.”
After she let herself out I dialed up a hot shower. Peeled off my blood-stained clothes and stepped into the scalding water as if to scour off a layer of skin.
For a long time I stood there trying to assemble the pieces of the day, fitting what little I knew against the hard edges of my predicament.
Eventually I closed my eyes and pulled up my new grid. Sterling’s mission file and notifications burned stark white against the muddy darkness of my eyelids. I nudged open the “Operation Grendel” folder, which expanded to a longer list.
> 1. CLASSIFIED LEVEL RED: Operation Grendel [text]
2. UCRI-K PERSONAL DATA: Raymin Dahl 4277962 [restricted]
3. UCF PERSONAL DATA: David Dahl 3995918 [restricted]
4. Corporal Dahl’s published articles and feature stories [text]
5. Preliminary Interview with Dahl – New Witlund [video]
The first file was the important one; two through four were obviously background research, and I had no desire to relive the morning’s events from a different perspective.
I read through the classified mission instructions three times under the purifying stream of hot water. Sterling’s assignment was ridiculously simple. Tomorrow morning I and the MADAR team (plus Vermier, I reminded myself) would hike through tropical jungle to a compound outside Seranik City. After a ninety-minute introduction ceremony, I’d try to negotiate a galaxy-wide ceasefire of at least ten years. In exchange, I would offer up to all five edge colonies. Preferably fewer. If the conditions were met I—that is, Sterling—was authorized to sign an intent letter on behalf of the President of the UC.
The skin on my arms was raw now from scrubbing, the dried blood finally having washed down the drain, but I didn’t want the shower to end. So I opened the next document, Raymin Dahl’s personnel file, and scanned its contents. Most of it I had seen before, or knew from memory, but there were two confidential assessments in the file that I didn’t know existed. They seemed to be psych evals composited from interactions with various AIs issued over the past few years.
CORPORAL DAHL’S FATHER, COMMANDER DAVID DAHL, UCF, IS A DECORATED VETERAN WHOSE PERSONAL LIFE HAS BEEN TROUBLED SINCE HIS WIFE OF SEVEN YEARS, INONA RIUS-DAHL, DEFECTED IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE WAR. THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN FATHER AND SON HAS BEEN STRAINED EVER SINCE.
COMPLICATING THIS IS THE FACT CORPORAL DAHL CHOSE NOT TO FOLLOW IN HIS FATHER’S FOOTSTEPS AS A FLEET OFFICER, INSTEAD ENLISTING IN THE KANZIN RESERVE INFANTRY. A SIMPLE BUT USEFUL EVALUATION OF THIS SOLDIER IS THAT HE STRUGGLES WITH LATENT FEELINGS OF ABANDONMENT THAT ARE CURRE
NTLY EXPRESSING THEMSELVES IN HIS WORK AS AN ORBSYN JOURNALIST.
DAHL’S RELATIONSHIP WITH HOLIKOT RESIDENT IVY WEBER PROBABLY ERODED DUE TO THE SAME EMOTIONAL UNDERCURRENTS . . .
The report went on, but I couldn’t stomach any more of it, so I switched to the personnel file for Commander David Dahl, UCF war hero and officially great guy.
A quick scan revealed that Fleet had known about his alcohol problem going all the way back to the week Inona evac’d to a better world. Of course, Fleet didn’t bother to do anything about it. The report didn’t admit this explicitly, but the reality was written squarely between the lines. David Dahl’s friends had covered for him. Fleet had covered for him. The OrbSyn press corps had covered for him. I’d probably even covered for him.
I closed the file when I got to his psych eval. The last thing I needed was a dose of insight into a war hero’s “humanity.” I’d seen enough of that growing up.
The auto-timer dinged and the shower spat a dribble of cold water across my shoulders like some parting gift. I stalked to the closet and found Captain Sterling’s immaculate fatigues hanging there as if in expectation of my arrival. They were oversized, but not by much. His uniform had been tailored for someone with more muscle.
For a moment I stood there staring at the uniform, wondering if I really owed anything to the man it was made for. He was dead now, or would be as soon as the story went live. He had dragged me into this predicament at every stage, and now he was dragging along everyone else.
Maybe I owe it to the edge, I thought. To the militia groups at least, if not to the citizens. Most of them had no idea how their lives were about to be upended by a political scheme cooked up lightyears away. The least I could do was give them the truth.
But who was I kidding? The “truth” changed sides as quickly as the headlines on OrbSyn’s breaking feed. That wasn’t why I was drawn to the uniform. Not really. No, I was going to put it on and tell the story because that’s what I did. It was all I knew how to do, and this was the most important, most exhilarating assignment I’d ever be given. I would never get another chance like this. A chance to make a difference. A chance to make a mark.
The only real difficulty I had in donning Sterling’s clothing was the act of pinning my new hardware to my collar. I kept seeing a distorted face and wide-open eyes. Heard the rasping breath. Whenever I got the captain’s bars next to the fabric, my hands shook, as if refusing to be part of the lie. Then I saw his words in my head—FIRE YOUR WEAPON!—and the shaking stopped.
The hotel room had a small desk by the window overlooking the northwest corner of the skyport tarmac. Outside, heat still shimmered off the pavement.
It was late afternoon. Time to record everything that had happened today. If I was going to write this story, I would have to do it piecemeal as it unfolded. But I had time enough for the first feature. Especially since I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. The face of PFC Kurcek kept popping up in my mind, the weight of his body rolling off my legs as I pushed. Then the guy in the turret with the chest wound. What had his name been?
I couldn’t recall. And I had no first-person recordings to rely on, so I’d have to work from memory.
The main question I had was one of perspective. I was using Sterling’s comms, Sterling’s access, Sterling’s history. But I had told Vermier that OrbSyn would run the story under Dahl’s name.
Was that what I really wanted? For readers to see the real journalist behind their favorite war stories? Did I want that comfortable, familiar mask ripped off?
Yes. That wasn’t just what I wanted. It was what I needed. I needed the name “Raymin Dahl” in the byline. And it was my story, after all, even if someone else had dreamed it up. I was the one doing the work, the one finishing the mission. Besides, I had a knack for first-person features, for telling people the story they wanted to hear. I’d been doing it for years.
Raymin Dahl, then. My great war story would be told by Corporal Raymin Dahl, OrbSyn word-pounder and darling of the edge.
Sergeant something. The guy Sterling had punched in the throat. He’d had a name too. Maybe it would come to me as I wrote.
I scooted the chair up to the desk and conjured a keyboard against its smooth surface. Old-school, virtual keys always provided a satisfying feedback loop that helped me to think. Thought-to-text was more efficient but often resulted in a jerky, unreadably stream-of-consciousness flavor neither I nor my editor could stand.
But where to start?
Sterling’s first memo had said: Tell them what they want to hear. Give them a story.
Advice even Major Weston would have agreed with. But I was planning something deeper. Something to set the edge colonies on fire.
I was going to tell the truth.
All right then, a confession.
Like every journalist, I lie for a living.
In this case, I had to become someone else in order to get the story. I’m not who I say I am.
My name isn’t Ansell Sterling, and I’m not a captain. I’m not even a marine.
The words burned in the text window of my grid, and I could feel the AI peering over my shoulder as I wrote, staring at my opening in fascination.
It felt good, to be honest. Having an audience of one.
One fan, not a critic, not an editor, just a reader eager to hear the story.
The sun set as I worked. Room service brought me something unmemorable—a sandwich perhaps—and Laclos knocked to tell me Hopper was relieving her at the door. I don’t recall my reply.
Finally, when I’d gotten most of it down, I stopped typing and stared out the window at the night sky. Quelon still hung in a blue-and-white crescent above the jagged black horizon. Even the Grand Alliance couldn’t change the natural courses of planets and moons. Nevertheless, I wondered which side claimed the system now. There would be no way to find out until our link to AFNET was restored.
“Raymin,” Ivy Weber’s voice said from behind me.
I turned, and there she was. Not the real Ivy, of course, but a digital projection behind my grid—a translucent ghost image not unlike the ones cast by a holo-screen.
The work of Sterling’s comms. My comms.
My AI.
I understood at once what had happened: reading my work, she’d found a name for herself. Not a name I would have picked, nor one I could have expected. Yet it fit somehow. That presence in the back of my mind was Ivy.
Someone I could trust.
I wondered how she knew and resented the fact she’d unraveled that part of me so quickly when I’d hidden it from myself so long.
She stood in a pool of light from the bathroom, her arms crossed, her lips pressed tightly together. I had hurt her, and she wanted me to know about it. She had no interest in hiding her emotions.
Rage and gratitude washed over me simultaneously. [Ivy!] I snarled.
But already my resolve was slipping away, and a moment later I called her name again in the darkness, this time out loud. “Ivy?”
Her green eyes flashed in the starlight, then moistened. “You never even said goodbye.”
PART TWO
WHY IT HAD TO BE DONE
BY CPL RAYMIN DAHL
EMBEDDED WITH MADAR TEAM TWO
6
Insertion
The first time I stepped into Orbits News Syndicate’s Holikot office with my brand-new duty assignment pinging from my wrist-comms Major Weston made me wait in the reception area for two and a half hours. When he finally appeared and waved me over to the elevator I mistook him for a clerk.
Weston was short and skinny, the sort of build they’d have jammed into a ball turret or a mini-submarine hundreds of years ago. I towered over him, and I’m not particularly tall. Instead of a service uniform, he wore khakis and a short-sleeved T-shirt emblazoned with the UCMC logo. Later I would discover he almost never wore his uniform around the OrbSyn office.
“You the new guy?” he asked, as if he couldn’t be bothered with learning my name a
nd rank.
“Yes, sir.”
He jabbed the elevator pad with one stubby thumb. “Save the ‘sir’ crap for when you’re irritated. It’ll keep things clear between us. Call me Charles or Major or Editor.”
The elevator doors dinged open, and I followed him on. I’d been warned about his unique leadership style and bulldog attitude, but he didn’t strike me as a man compensating for the fact that he looked nearly everyone he met in the chest. He seemed more like a man looking through everyone to something else. “Okay, Major,” I said. No way I was calling him Charles. I doubted anyone called him by his first name.
He keyed the seventh floor, marked EDITORIAL, and placed his hands on his hips as if he’d just finished a race and needed space to breathe. He wasn’t looking at me—a quirk I would have to get used to over the next four weeks. “I’ve read your file. What there is of it. And I don’t care who your father is. You understand that?”
His voice had taken on the tone of a drill instructor, as if the whole process of training yet another newbie reporter were so tiresome that he’d just as soon chuck me out an upper-story window as let me breathe the filtered air of his news office. I said, “Yes, uh . . . Major.”
“As of today you are just another intern—a barnacle fixed to the underbelly of Fleet’s news division. You aren’t a journalist yet. You understand that?”
The word yet quickened my pulse. This was what I had been planning for, and I was finally standing in the reception area of the biggest news organization in the republic, talking to the war features editor. “Yes.”
The door dinged and opened into the editorial floor. We stepped out into a spacious hallway overlooking an atrium. The open floorplan housed rows of desks flanked by glass-paneled offices and conference rooms on every side.
Major Weston led me past a massive holo-screen in the center of the open space. Two stories tall at least, it was flooded with shifting images of breaking news from across the battlefronts of the war. This was the holy grail of armed forces journalism Fleet broadcast across every core and edge system in the galaxy.
Operation Grendel Page 6