by A. G. Riddle
“They’re turned off, right?” I ask.
“Yes, sir.”
An explosion echoes in the distance.
“I assume they just hit our battleship?” Harry asks.
The tech studies the screen. “North one-oh-nine just detonated. The force of the kinetic round must have set it off somehow.”
“So much for the land mines,” Earls mutters.
It occurs to me then, what Arthur’s warning means: it all comes back to energy. We can’t live without it.
“We have a bigger problem,” I say quietly. “These potato cannons aren’t just for the land mines.” I glance back at Arthur. “I think they’re going to use them to break the solar panels.”
Without the solar panels beside the warehouse and on top of it, we’ll freeze to death in a matter of days. In a strange way, our fate has become the same as the grid’s: our future hinges upon the collection and conservation of energy.
Either we protect those solar panels—or we die.
The breakaway cars have rejoined the convoys by the time the larger group reaches the edge of our rings of land mines. Deep blast pits dot the landscape. The convoys drive single file, hugging the edge of the blast areas, safely passing.
“Their kinetic cannons will be in range of our solar panels in about three minutes,” Earls says.
On another screen, I watch the troops on the roof covering our solar panels with a patchwork of habitat wall pieces and capsule parts.
We’ve decided to let our enemy destroy the solar field next to the warehouse. We’d have to put troops out there to properly defend it. We can’t spread ourselves that thin. We may not even be able to protect the solar panels on the roof. Assuming we can, they will barely generate enough to power the manufacturing plant. And not enough to heat the warehouse.
Several vehicles from the eastern convoy stop and the troops set up a larger array of PVC canons. Soon, they’re launching projectiles in waves. Some of the cans strike the warehouse and bounce off. But they are devastating to the field of fragile solar panels, which shatter and list, falling to the ground. It soon looks like a mangled junkyard of black glass in the snow.
“The roof protections are holding,” Harry says. He leans over to Grigory. “What are we going to do in the morning when we need them exposed to the sun?”
“We figure it out if there is a morning,” Grigory mutters.
I turn at the sound of footsteps behind me. Since Caffee assaulted the command post, I’ve been a little jumpy. We all have.
Brightwell marches through the doorway, arm in a sling, eyes focused. “What did I miss?”
“You feeling up to duty?” I ask her.
She grimaces as if the question is ridiculous. “It barely grazed me.”
With a small grin, Earls begins filling her in.
On the screen, the convoys on all sides of us come to a stop. They’re setting up just outside the effective firing range of our snipers. I wish we had some heavy artillery. I wonder if the Pac Alliance and Atlanteans brought any when they came over. I guess we’ll know soon.
Fowler squints at the video feeds of the convoys, idling in the snow, pointed at us but unmoving. “What are they doing?”
“The four convoys are likely conversing on an encrypted Pac Alliance channel,” Earls responds.
“Can we listen in?”
“No. Codebreakers were working on it before Ceres, but after… high command thought there was little chance of war. Resources were reassigned.”
“Any guess about what they’re saying?”
“They’ve probably been out of radio contact until now or just recently,” Earls says. “They’ve no doubt realized that their advance team didn’t make it to the plant. I’d bet they’re altering their course of action.”
The car radio on the table behind me crackles to life, the sound only a series of beeps, easy to miss, almost like a malfunction or system test.
“It’s Morse code,” Harry says. “Numbers one, three, two.”
“It’s a channel,” I reply, thinking. “I bet it’s an AU radio channel.”
Harry tunes a handheld radio to channel 132 and cranks the volume up.
Nothing.
Were the numbers some kind of message? A signal that they’re going to attack?
“Reverse it.”
Harry tunes the handheld to channel 231. We hear Chandler’s voice instantly.
“Commuter one, commuter two, do you copy? Please respond.”
Brightwell eyes me, silently requesting orders. I hold a hand up. Hopefully, he’s about to reveal something about the next step in his plan.
“Commuter one, commuter two, do you copy? Please respond,” Chandler calls again. Then there’s a long silence.
The car radio crackles to life, Chandler’s voice broadcasting this time, muffled, like a disc jockey on a station that barely comes in.
“To the Atlantic Union troops in Camp Nine, this is Richard Chandler, your elected representative. I’m appealing to you directly because your government is betraying you. They have instigated a confrontation with the Pac Alliance and Atlanta survivors. Don’t let this go any further. We can resolve this without bloodshed. Lay down your arms and come out and join us. I promise you that no harm will come to you or any of your family or anyone else in Camp Nine. This is your only chance. Please choose peace. Work with us.”
A pause, then: “They’re telling me you have five minutes. Please hurry.”
“Did any of our troops hear any speakers broadcast that message in the warehouse or plant?” Brightwell asks.
One of her techs asks over the radio and turns a minute later. “No reports, ma’am.”
“Advise all troops that an attack is likely imminent.”
Earls leads Brightwell, Fowler, Harry, Grigory, Min, and me to the corner of the room opposite Arthur and his guards.
“Thoughts?” Earls asks.
“We can hold them off,” Brightwell responds. “Assuming they don’t have heavy artillery.”
“We’ll probably know that within a few minutes. If they do, they’ll use it to soften the perimeter and then breach,” Earls adds.
Arthur is watching us, an amused expression on his face. He raises his eyebrows at me when we make eye contact.
In the background, I vaguely hear the group debating options. The first is trying to escape—using the 3-D printers to make a helicopter or dirigible. This is ruled out quickly. They explore fortifying the plant and drawing the enemy into the warehouse and fighting there. Our troop numbers give us poor odds down that road.
In my mind, I turn the problem around, look at it from every angle, and then consider what I have to work with. I stare at Arthur, sensing that he is a valuable piece of the puzzle, though how is not clear to me yet. He’s right: we’re outgunned and trapped. But what do we have that Chandler wouldn’t expect? What would change the situation here, turn it to our advantage? In a flash I see it, feeling that inspiration I once felt in the lab when I made a breakthrough.
“James?” Fowler asks.
I realize everyone is looking at me, waiting. “There’s a solution here, one that guarantees our survival.”
Fowler cocks his head, surprised. Earls and Brightwell stare with unreadable expressions. Grigory looks skeptical.
“We’re going to fight. And we’re going to win.”
Brightwell flicks her eyes at Earls, who nods for her to speak. “Sir, to win, we need more ammunition and—”
“No, Colonel, to win we need only one thing. More time.”
She bunches her eyebrows. “Sir, with our ration situation and the threat to the solar panels, I believe time is not on our side.”
“Not yet, Colonel. But it will be.” I stride over to the table and pick up the handheld radio. “Chandler.”
“Hello, James. I hope you’re calling to avoid bloodshed. We’ve come to make peace, not war. Let’s talk terms.”
“Yes. Let’s talk terms. You don’t realize it yet, bu
t we have the upper hand here. I hope you don’t find that out the hard way. To the other members of your group who can hear me, listen closely. Your lives depend upon it. Richard Chandler is here because of a personal vendetta against me. Don’t let him manipulate you. He doesn’t care about you or your people. But we do. We’ve built the ships that will save us all. Let’s stick to our plan. If you leave now, this will all be forgotten. Our plans will proceed as if it never happened.”
Chandler responds quickly. “I’m sure you also want us to forget the fact that you don’t have room for everyone on those ships, James. And it won’t be the AU troops left behind. They’re vital to the conspiracy. It will be these men and women—from Atlanta and the Pac Alliance. They’ll be left to starve on this cold, dark world.”
“You’ve missed quite a bit since you left, Richard. We solved that issue.”
Harry and Grigory instantly turn to me. Min looks down. They all know it’s a lie. If that lie saves my people, I’ll tell it until the ships leave orbit.
“Stop lying, James.”
“I’m not. There’s space for everyone. The cause you’ve convinced these people to fight for no longer exists.”
A long pause on the radio. This might actually work.
Chandler’s voice is confident when he comes back on. “Nice try, James. But let’s stop with the lies. Surrender now. Send your troops out unarmed, and no one gets hurt.”
“You want us, Richard, come in and get us. Otherwise, we’ll simply wait while you all starve and freeze out there.”
“James, we both know you’ll be the one starving and freezing. Why would we attack when we can wait you out? Call me back when you’re ready to be reasonable. Or better yet, I hope someone else inside will call when you’re dead or locked up.”
The line goes silent, but soon after, there’s movement on the video feeds: troops pouring out of the vehicles. It’s clear the life signs from the drones were masked. There were indeed a lot of soldiers in those troop carriers. They insulated the compartments.
“I want troop counts,” Brightwell calls out.
The Pac Alliance and Atlanta soldiers drag large bundles out of the carrier compartments and fumble with them in the snow. If those are heavy artillery, our chances of survival plummet. Mushrooms rise from the packs, silver domes glowing in the night vision image. They’re portable habitats—probably brought over from Atlanta. These were used for the settlers arriving there. They’re built for long-term use in harsh conditions.
Our enemy is digging in for a siege.
In the bottom right corner, the troop counts from each convoy tick up as the technicians update them. In total, our adversary has brought nearly four thousand troops. To our roughly four hundred.
We have enough food for fourteen days. That’s how long we have to win this war.
Chapter 64
Emma
Consciousness comes like a light slowly being turned on and off. I see the world in those brief flashes. The inside of the infirmary. Madison, Abby, and Izumi leaning over me, holding my hand, pressing the health analyzer to my finger, adjusting the medication flowing into the bag hanging from a metal pole beside the bed.
I open my eyes and find Madison sitting in the chair opposite me, holding Allie. She jumps out of her aunt’s lap and runs over when she sees my eyes open.
“Mom…”
“Hi, sweetie.”
Tears fill her eyes. “You’re sick.”
“No, I’m not. I just need to rest for a bit.” I smile and place a hand on her face, the IV line pulling at my skin. “Your baby brother will be here soon. Are you excited?”
She nods, but her lower lip trembles and her eyes betray her fear.
In the distance, I hear an echoing boom. It sounds like a land mine going off.
“That’s been happening about every hour,” Madison says.
A figure appears at the entrance to the infirmary, face shadowed, but I know that walk, burdened, lumbering, but purposeful. James makes a beeline for my bed, stopping just long enough to squat and catch Allie as she runs into his arms.
He nods to Madison who collects her knitting and leaves us. “Hi.”
I smile. “How’s it going?”
“Crazy day at the office.”
“Sounds like things are blowing up in your face.”
That gets a snort from him and the humor actually reaches his eyes. The levity has an effect on Allie too. I can sense her relaxing. Young children take their cues from their parents. If we’re calm, they’re more likely to be calm. She knows something’s going on, that there’s danger out there. But in this moment, it feels far away and controlled.
James turns to her. “Are you being good while I’m at work?”
She smiles sheepishly.
“Listening to your mom and aunt?”
Allie nods.
“No fighting with your cousins.” He kisses her forehead. “Go find your aunt Madison. I want to visit with Mom a bit.”
When she’s beyond earshot, my smile fades. “Chandler?”
“Yeah,” James replies, turning his face away to look at the vitals on the screen beside the bed.
“How bad?”
“Just an inconvenience. We’ll be out of the woods in a few days.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Completely.”
“Good. We’ll be out of here soon. I promise.”
Chapter 65
James
After I visit Emma, I stay in the command post for a few hours, watching Chandler’s troops set up their camp. They’re spread out across the snow-covered land, forming a ring with four breaks where their camps don’t meet each other. The holes from the land mines lie beyond their camp, brown and black pits slowly fading to white as the falling snow fills them.
I glance at the countdown clock, watching it tick down to zero.
“Arming North four-three,” a tech says. “Detonating.”
A land mine goes off, sending a spray of snow and earth into the air. The explosions can’t physically harm the troops out there. But they can keep them awake. Keeping our enemy sleep-deprived and ill prepared to attack is the best we can do at the moment. They have the numbers and the luxury of attacking at a moment of their choosing. We have to constantly be ready to defend—with far fewer numbers. But if they’re tired and agitated, it gives us a slight edge.
“I think it’s clear they’re bedding down for the night,” Earls says.
“I agree,” Brightwell adds.
“Let’s meet in the sit-room,” I say to the group as I head out of the command post, two armed guards falling in behind me.
I stop by to see Emma in the infirmary again. She and Allie are both scared. I do my best to reassure both of them. I think only Allie buys it, but I know Emma believes in me. It’s like the wind at my back. It makes me believe in me. I also know she has her own worries, the child inside of her being the greatest of all.
Walking the halls helps me think, my muscles firing like an engine powering my brain.
The entire team is waiting in the situation room when I arrive. Earls and Brightwell stand rigidly near the door. Harry nurses a cup of coffee. Min sits with his eyes closed, resting without sleeping. Grigory leans back in his chair staring at the ceiling as if he’s wondering how we ever got into this situation. Fowler sits in the chair I used to sit in, to the right of the head of the table. That seat lies empty. Waiting for me.
I motion my guards to wait outside and close the door. I stand a few feet away from the head of the table, not quite ready to sit.
“I have a plan. What we don’t have is much time. I need help from every one of you. And I need you to work quickly. We don’t have a lot of time for debate.” I think my meaning is clear, but for good measure, I add, “Does that work?”
Fowler nods.
“I’ve never disobeyed an order,” Earls says. “I’m not about to start.”
“As you know,”
Brightwell says calmly, “I follow your orders, sir. Even when I don’t agree.”
“And I’ve learned from those past orders, Colonel. I meant what I said in the command post. We’re going to fight. And we’re going win.”
“How, sir? They have the numbers.”
“They won’t by the time we engage them. We’ll have even odds or possibly superior numbers. We’ll also have the element of surprise.”
Brightwell actually smiles. “I like the sound of that, sir.”
“I thought you would, Colonel. I need you to make sure your people are in fighting condition when the time comes.”
“Any idea when that time will be?”
“About two weeks, give or take a few days.”
“Cutting it close with our ration situation, sir.”
“I’ll take care of the ration issue.”
“What do you need from us?” Harry asks.
“I need you to get all of those vehicle speakers and radios working again. This time, we’re going to use them to our advantage.”
“That shouldn’t take long,” Harry replies.
“How many drones do we have left?” I ask Brightwell. “That we can land on the roof and deploy with light cargo?”
“Four.”
I do a few mental calculations, then focus on Harry, Min, and Grigory. “I need you to make eighty housings for small bombs. Twenty for each drone.”
Harry nods slowly, as if mentally guessing my plan. “We can probably make it work, but we don’t have parts to make any more bombs. We used everything we had on the land mines, and we can’t exactly go out scavenging for more explosives.”
“We won’t need them. The cases will be empty. They’ll just look like bombs. How long to make them?”
Harry glances at Min and shrugs. “We can print them in about twenty-four hours.”
“I need the printers for something else. You’ll have to use what you have here in the warehouse.”
“Okay. Maybe three or four days.”
Min says, “Power will be an issue. The solar panels on the roof can barely generate enough electricity to heat the warehouse. If you need them to run the printers and refill the drone’s power cells, we’re going to be way short. And that’s assuming we’re at one hundred percent efficiency. At the moment, the panels are covered for protection.”